Should There Be Starlight
by Princess Quill
Summary: Tauriel sacrifices her life in Mirkwood and her position as captain of the guard to act on her convictions. With Legolas's help, she pursues the orcs hunting the dwarves to Laketown, where the Elves rescue Kili and the others. This is a Kiliel fic which explores events beyond the end of DoS, and will likely go all the way through to the Battle of the Five Armies.
1. A Decision Made

The river glimmered through the trees like a great water-serpent sunning itself in the forest. Scales of afternoon light winked on its hide. Tauriel had been hugging its banks for over an hour, but there was no hint of any disturbance on its surface or shadows by its shore. She hadn't expected to find any signs of her quarry this soon, but hope was a harsh mistress. Her keen eyes skimmed the sweep of the forest ahead of her, always returning to the silver luster of the water on her left, as if she thought she might catch sight of a barrel, or the remains of one. Her feet drummed a light tattoo into the earth as she plunged through the woodland, weaving a pattern clever enough to outwit even the most intricate tangle of roots.

_I know you_, she thought as she ducked a low-hanging branch that seemed to swoop out of nowhere. _I have spent six hundred years learning to think as you do. You cannot fool me_.

Always the great forest of Mirkwood sought to ensnare those who roamed its reaches, even those who lived there, who had been born there, as Tauriel had. She had fallen prey to its many traps more times than she cared to admit. But she had been raised at the forest's knee. Time and experience had taught her what to expect, and it was a rare day indeed when Taur-e-Ndaedelos could best her.

If she had learned anything from recent events, though, it was that the forest could still surprise her. Only a few days ago, it had brought a strange company into its midst, the sort of which had not been seen in this country for many years. Any number of dwarves was a peculiar number to be wandering in Mirkwood, but thirteen seemed even more so.

_Thirteen and they still needed rescuing_. Trust dwarves to get themselves into such a sticky situation. Tauriel's patrol had discovered the party waylaid by spiders in a thickly-webbed hollow, where she and Legolas had dispatched the dark creatures and captured the dwarves. They had not taken kindly to the gesture (nor had the spiders, for that matter), but what had they expected? They were trespassers and had been treated as such, imprisoned in the Woodland Realm—at least they were safe from the spiders. But that had not been enough. By some trickery, they had escaped in barrels on the Forest River. As captain of King Thranduil's guard, it had been Tauriel's duty to keep her charges where they belonged: in the cells deep in the Elvenking's halls. She had failed in that duty.

And yet it was not disgust with her own failure—though there was plenty of that to go around—that spurred the warrior onward. Something had changed in the past few days, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was. An unfamiliar taste on her tongue, a foreign scent in the air, a new slant of the sun. Even the way she carried herself seemed different, as though she was leaning forward, tugged by some invisible force. That pull had become almost unbearable today. Now that she had heeded it, she felt a freedom that told her she was going in the right direction. Thranduil might have been able to sit on his hands and do nothing while the world burned, but she was not about to sit back and watch everything she had ever known crumble to dust, and everything she hadn't known, besides.

Inaction was as good as damnation.

The band of orcs had gotten an unfair head start, but they hadn't bothered to hide their tracks. Typical Gundabad arrogance. The trail was still fairly fresh, though not so recent that she thought she'd catch up anytime soon. Tauriel had wanted to go after them as soon as the dwarves' barrels had passed through the portcullis, but her obedience to her post had held her back.

_If the portcullis had never been closed_ . . .

The thought haunted her. True, the dwarves would still be gone and there would be Thranduil's displeasure to deal with, but it seemed like a small price to pay in return for the assurance that they were safe—or as safe as one could be, travelling in a wooden vessel on this river. Those barrels were meant to carry wine, not living creatures. The guards had closed the portcullis in a misguided effort to follow orders. Tauriel could not fault them for that. But in doing so, they had conveniently gathered the dwarves in one place and exposed them to the onslaught of orcs that had descended upon their escape attempt.

It had been fish in a barrel. Or rather, thirteen dwarves in barrels. If Kili had not opened the gate, they might all have been killed then and there.

Instead, only he might be dead. A fresh wave of fury coursed through her, electrifying her nerves and setting her feet nearly to flight. The last she had seen of him, he was wounded but still alive, thanks to her. Tauriel had not realized then the nature of his wound, or else she would have followed them at once. If the orc she and Legolas had captured had not been lying to them, then Kili's wound would only worsen. He would need Elven-skill to heal it, or else the Morgul poison would take him, if the orc pack did not reach him first.

An expanse of silver-blue filled the negative spaces cut between the trees ahead. Tauriel veered left, temporarily abandoning the orc-trail. She vaulted over a fallen tree and launched herself out into the free air. Here the embankment was wide and rocky, framing a small cascade that brought the Forest River to its end. The serpent stirred from its sun-bath, slinking into the still body of water that lay beyond.

The vista that opened up before her snagged her breath in her throat. The Long Lake unfurled across the horizon, luminous and vast. The town of Esgaroth clung to its eastern shore like it thought it might be swallowed any day. Its wooden eaves seemed impossibly far from here, but Tauriel's razor vision could still make out the silhouettes of the roofs, the curve of boat-prows along the rim of the harbor. Further to the north, the Lonely Mountain thrust its spire into the sky. There, the dragon lay sleeping, though not for long, if the dwarves had their way.

Mirkwood ended here, its gnarled growth running to the lakeshore before it had to surrender to the water. The hunting party of orcs must have already been on its way around the lake. If the dwarves, too, were on foot, they would soon be overtaken. Even if they had all been in perfect health, they could not outrun a few dozen orcs and their wargs. Unless . . .

Tauriel's eyes roved the surface of the water. Amidst the distant ice floes she discerned a different shape, dark wood with a billowing crown. Could some miracle have given them passage across the water? A breeze rolled in from the lake, swaying Tauriel's long, coppery hair. It had some bite to it, the teeth of winter. But the chill could not frost over the hope that had sparked in the elleth's heart. The dwarven company had found a boat, she was sure of it.

That hardly meant that they were out of danger, but it bought them time. More importantly, it bought _her_ time. Her tracking skills would not fail her, nor did she doubt her ability to catch up with the orcs, though dealing with them once she found them was another story. She would have to cross that bridge when she came to it; for now, the most she could do was follow their trail, which was heading south and east, skirting the contour of the lake. Heading for Laketown.

Tauriel was about to double back to the treeline when she heard a flutter of movement behind her: a footstep as quiet as a batting eyelash and the familiar creak of a bowstring. She bent her own bow in a heartbeat, pulling an arrow from the quiver at her hip and dropping to one knee as she whirled around to face the intruder. She was not at all surprised to recognize the archer who mounted the higher ground by the waterfall. The ellon's posture mirrored her own, his bow an extension of his arms as he aimed an arrow at her throat. A tense breath passed between them before they both relaxed.

_Legolas_. She had suspected he would not leave well enough alone, as she could not. She got to her feet as the prince jogged over to her.

"You cannot hunt thirty orcs on your own."

Tauriel angled a knowing look at him. "But I am not on my own."

"You knew I would come," he said, realizing he had been played for a fool.

She smiled.

"The king is angry, Tauriel." He crested the rise beside her, and when she looked back at him she saw that the amusement in his eyes had hardened to disapproval. "For six hundred years my father has protected you, favored you. You defied his orders. You betrayed his trust."

Her smile slipped; his words struck their mark. In her many years serving Thranduil, she had never flouted his commands. She had never been afraid to speak her mind, even when she knew he would reproach her, but she had never openly disobeyed him before. It had not been easy to do so today, but she was no slave to fear, just as she was slave to no other creature. She fixed Legolas with a determined stare.

"I have betrayed no one," she said. "Your father has given me shelter, but I have given him my life. I would lay it down for him."

"Then come back with me," Legolas said. "He will forgive you."

Tauriel's eyes narrowed. "But I will not. If I go back, I will not forgive myself." She stepped closer to the rock's edge, lifting her gaze across the lake. The boat was shrinking in the distance. "The king has never let orc filth roam our lands. But he would let this orc pack cross our borders and kill our prisoners."

"It is not our fight."

"It _is_ our fight." She turned back to him. How could he not see? The truth was as plain as the orc-trail that ran along the shore. "It will not end here. With every victory, this evil will grow. If your father has his way, we will do nothing."

Legolas looked away from her, towards Laketown. He was as stubborn as they came, and his royal upbringing made him haughty at times, but Tauriel knew he would see sense if he was willing. She had already weakened his resolve—now she needed to convince him utterly.

"We will do nothing," she repeated. "We will hide within our walls, live our lives away from the light, and let darkness descend."

The prince glanced back at her suddenly, and she met his ice-blue stare. She had him now.

"Are we not part of this world? Tell me, _mellon_. When did we let evil become stronger than us?"

His fingers had curled into fists, white-knuckling his bow.

"Legolas." Her temper ebbed as swiftly as it had flowed. "Why are you pretending that you have not already decided what to do?"

A small smile betrayed him. "So that when my father asks, I can tell him that you gave me no choice but to pursue you."

"Do not waste your pursuit on me," Tauriel said. "We must mind much larger game tonight, and we run short of time in which to catch it. I hope the king is not expecting you for dinner."

"I hope that you are not expecting him to receive you with open arms when we return," Legolas warned. "You may be his captain, but you are not his kin. Your weakness where the dwarves are concerned will not endear you to him."

"It is no weakness," she said sharply. Kili sprang to her mind, how earnestly he spoke of his promise to his mother, the warmth in his face as he looked at her through the bars. It could not be weakness to recognize the strength of another soul, whether that soul belong to Elf or dwarf. And it was not weakness to desire to preserve that strength. "We must find friends where we can. If not friends, then allies."

On this point, Tauriel knew she had not persuaded him. Suspicion knitted his brow, and the elleth could tell he believed there was more than what she was telling him. But there was no time to debate the minutiae of her feelings towards the dwarves. The orcs had already gained too much ground. They needed to leave now if they had a prayer of overtaking them.

"In that case, we should waste no more time," said Legolas. He started towards the forest to find the trail. "Unless we want our alliance to be with thirteen dead dwarves."

Tauriel clamped down on her fear as she followed him. It wouldn't be. _Not if I have a hand in it._


	2. An Unhappy Accident

"You would think they wanted us to follow them!"

Legolas ran ahead of her, his longer legs covering more distance than she could with every stride. The Elves had fallen into the natural rhythm of the chase as soon as they had picked up the trail. For centuries they had hunted together, even before Tauriel had been appointed captain, and they had forged a partnership that no spider or orc could compromise. Legolas's movements were as familiar to Tauriel as her own; she could anticipate every step he took, had memorized the length of his leaps, and knew whether he would dodge an obstacle or jump it. They ran in tandem, instinctively shaping their paths in response to the course of the other.

The sensation of moving as one always thrilled Tauriel. She hadn't realized until now how much she had hoped for Legolas's help on this mission. Her mouth curved into a grin. They were making good time. They could do this.

It helped that the orc-trail was as wide as a road and about as flat. Neither the wargs nor their riders were particularly subtle creatures, and they had destroyed a good deal of vegetation in their haste. Tauriel and Legolas had been following the trail for hours, leaving the trees in favor of the open grasslands that trimmed the lakeshore. The sun had long since sunk behind them, and night gathered heavily over the land, though compared to the gloom in the heart of the forest it seemed radiant. Moonlight sweated on the surface of the lake, and since when had there been so many stars? Tauriel's view of the night sky had always been impaired by the boughs of Mirkwood, and to see it in such glorious fulfillment had made her heart stutter in her chest. She did not find the stars cold, as Kili had called them, but kindled with a grace that the sun could not know. They were pinpricks of hope, and they would shine for anyone who needed them.

The moon was high in the sky; it was late. The cool breeze coming off the water had become a wind that whipped at Tauriel's tunic. In the distance, Lake-town glowed amber against a cloak of mountains. By now the dwarves would most certainly have reached the docks. Tauriel wondered if whoever had given them passage was now also giving them shelter. It was the least she could hope for.

"Stealth is not their concern. Can you see them?" she called to Legolas. Of the two of them, he had sharper eyesight, though not by much. His pace slowed slightly as he strained to see through the darkness. She took the opportunity to draw even him, matching her gait with his own.

"We are closing the gap," he said after a moment. "If we do not falter, I think we may be able to overtake them by dawn."

"We will not falter."

"Tauriel." She could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her gaze trained ahead. She, too, could make out the form of the orc party some miles ahead of them. "I am the first to admit that between the two of us, our skill is formidable. Still, there are only two of us. We will be greatly outnumbered."

"If you wanted to sow doubt, then you should not have come," Tauriel said. "We may be few, but we are a better match for thirty orcs than those dwarves."

"Do you have so little faith in your friends? I thought they were warriors."

"They are warriors without weapons. Or did you forget that we disarmed them? Their effects are in Thranduil's vaults, now."

"Not all of them." Legolas reached over his shoulder as he ran. Tauriel's head turned at the scrape of steel, and her eyes widened when she saw the blade gleaming like a moonbeam in the prince's hand. There was no mistaking that crescent crossguard or the elegance peculiar to Gondolin metalcraft. It was Orcrist, the sword that the dwarves' leader, Thorin Oakenshield, had wielded when he arrived in Mirkwood. Legolas had relieved him of that prize, but Tauriel had believed it had been locked up with the rest of the confiscated items.

"Goblin-cleaver," she said, with no small measure of reverence. "How did you come by that?"

"I could not let such a magnificent weapon out of my sight," Legolas said. "Why should it not taste orc again?"

"It was not yours to take."

To her annoyance, Legolas laughed. "Only you would dare scold me for a crime so trivial in face of your own. Still, you are right. It does not belong to me. But neither does it belong to Oakenshield." He returned it to the sheath strapped onto his back. "Sometimes, as you know, we must challenge our own considerations of what is right."

Tauriel kept her peace, but privately she thought that he had not brought Orcrist merely because he coveted it. The sword was not his weapon of choice. _He plans to return it, even if he does not realize it yet_. That was the other thing about knowing someone so well—sometimes it meant understanding their intentions and their attitudes before they did.

They wasted no more breath on conversation. They drove themselves harder than they ever had before, and their progress seemed remarkable to Tauriel, without having to navigate the mazework of the forest and the pitfalls that riddled it. They could cover so much distance without even trying, skirring across the fields like reflections on a mirror. Determination kept Tauriel abreast of Legolas, her heart pounding so forcefully in her chest that it hurt. The physical effort was almost enough to keep her distracted, but every now and again her mind circled back to her fears. How swiftly would the poison act on Kili? She knew little about the dwarven constitution, but she could not imagine he had more than a few days at the most. After all, he was rather small, even if he was on the tall side for a dwarf.

When she found herself focusing on such thoughts, she simply pushed herself further until it was impossible to think of anything but the strain in her muscles and the breath burning in her throat. The stars moved steadily overhead, and the moon declined as they rounded the flank of the Long Lake. A spectral light flushed the sky above Lake-town. Dawn was approaching, and they had reached the southernmost point of the lake. The orcs were now so close that Tauriel could easily distinguish every member of their party, wargs and riders alike. As the sun rose, new shapes appeared on the horizon, some few miles ahead of the Gundabad pack—a cluster of what looked like small buildings or enormous cattle.

"What is it?" Tauriel said, short-winded. "More enemies?"

"I do not think so." Legolas's tone was troubled. "Though they are about to discover some. It looks like a caravan—human merchants, perhaps, making for town or leaving it."

Tauriel tasted horror in her mouth, a tang like blood. She realized she had bitten her tongue.

"They chose a poor night to be abroad," she said with a calmness she did not feel.

"It could be that the orcs will bypass them. What matter are they to them?"

"We will see."

"You cannot save everyone, _mellon_."

"Perhaps not," said Tauriel. "But I can try."

Not for the first time, the elleth felt her avian eyesight as a burden rather than a blessing as she watched the orc pack close in on the caravan. The mortals had convened their wagons in a defensive ring by the water's edge, but that would not be enough. Such a tactic might have protected them from a smaller group of bandits or a lone predator, but from orcs? Tauriel doubted that those men had ever witnessed savagery such as they were about to experience, if the orcs decided to attack. Their best chance was to slumber on and hope—without knowing to hope—that the hunters saw fit to ignore them.

_Either that or they will be slaughtered in their sleep._

But Tauriel was not quite correct in her assumption that all the merchants were still abed. Oswin the cooper, a middle-aged man who had not the first clue to the irony of his profession at this moment, had arisen only a few moments earlier. His gout had been acting up something fierce over the past few months, and it was getting worse with the turn towards winter. His aching joints soured his mood and spoiled his dreams. It was hardly worth it to stay in bed when he couldn't sleep and it hurt to lie down for too long, anyway. He huffed about the wagon for a minute or two, but his wife shifted pointedly in the bedclothes, so he donned his coat, grabbed his walking stick, and shambled out onto the stale campsite.

The morning was cold as a carp's arse and twice as clammy. The lake lapped at the land, but other than that the world was quiet. Oswin glowered at the charred remains of a fire which made a black scar in the middle of the circle. He hated being first awake; not only did it mean more time spent in consciousness, but it also meant he was responsible for rekindling the fire. The lad who was meant to be keeping watch-his good-for-nothing nephew-had fallen asleep leaning against a wagon. An impressive feat but a useless defense. Oswin stumped over to the makeshift hearth and was grudgingly pleased to see that a few embers still persisted, though they were buried deep. He used his staff to poke them back into life, cursing until it worked.

"Not too shabby," he muttered as the blaze caught. The warmth wasn't enough to ease his gout, but it was something. He leaned against his staff and took a deep breath of the lakeside air. It was good to be home, or almost. Come afternoon they'd be back in Lake-town at last. He'd missed the familiar scents of damp earth, and more faintly, of smoke—he'd always thought that came from the dragon under the mountain.

Oswin sniffed again. There was something new there, something his nostrils didn't recognize. He'd only been gone a few months. What could have changed in a season? He didn't like what he smelled. Wet dog, he thought. Wet dog and bad breath. He hadn't noticed that last night.

He glanced around for the source, but his ears found it before his eyes. A strange howl, the cross between a wolf and a demon, raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The howl multiplied, one becoming many, until the grotesque baying filled the plains with its dissonance. Terror made molasses of Oswin's limbs, so he had to lean on his staff to turn towards the sound, which he did only because he didn't know what else to do.

The memory of moonlight lit the hellish sight. A small army of overgrown wolves stampeded towards the caravan, mounted by huge, gnarled riders with coarse armor and weapons that made up with intimidation what they lacked in sophistication. Oswin couldn't believe his eyes. He had heard curious tidings in his recent travels, and any man who made his home so close to a firebreather needed a high tolerance for potential peril—but orcs, this close to Lake-town? Either he was in the middle of a nightmare, or he had something much worse than gout. No matter how hard he blinked, however, and despite a good pinch to the arm, the orcs and their wolf-steeds kept getting closer. Oswin realized he wasn't hallucinating when he saw one of them heft a spear that looked like it could harpoon a whale. And if it could do that, it could certainly harpoon a cooper.

Anyone who saw how fast Oswin ran at that moment would never have guessed he was a man who suffered from arthritis. He hurtled to the nearest wagon and banged on it with his walking stick.

"Awake!" he bellowed, nearly choking on his own voice. "Awake, you loons! We're under attack!"

He ran along the inside of the ring, knocking his staff against the sides of the wagons. Angry insults sounded from within, from cranky merchants who'd enjoyed a little too much brew last night and wanted nothing more than to sleep it off. He ignored them, shouting his warning again and again. He slapped his nephew snoring through his watch as he passed him. The boy spluttered in confusion, swinging his sword stupidly. Then he, too, spotted the oncoming orcs and began to screech at such a horrible pitch that every wagon door opened at once.

"To arms!" Oswin cried. "To arms or we'll all be pushing up daisies!"But judging from the size of those wolves, he wasn't so sure those things would be mutually exclusive.


	3. Battle at Daybreak

The fire split the darkness ahead. It was a sunrise in miniature, a beacon to anyone with half-functional vision, to say nothing of Elf-sight. The light silhouetted the orc pack riding ahead of them in ghoulish puppetry.

"Fools," said Tauriel. Whoever had started the fire had destroyed the humans' only chance of making it through unscathed. As she and Legolas pounded closer, she heard a clamor rising from the campsite, the sounds of shouting and wagons quaking as someone mustered the merchants.

"They plan to fight?" Legolas said in disbelief. "They should flee. They would have just as much luck either way."

Tauriel said nothing. She had not expected this; like him, she had guessed they would run, if anything. She admired their bravery, but she had to agree that it was probably misguided. She steeled herself for the impact between hunters and humans, so that when it came, she did not flinch. The pack slowed as it streamed through the circle, the rallying shouts of the men turning to screams. The Elves were almost on top of them, only a hundred feet away and moving in fast. Tauriel drew an arrow like a breath, fitting it to the string as the scene before her became more than shadows on the horizon—it became real.

She wheeled her bow skyward and let the arrow fly. It arced across the fading stars and buried itself in the skull of a warg who had climbed onto the roof of the nearest wagon. With a yelp it slid over the edge, landing on a pack-mate, who used its teeth to toss it aside. The rider of the slain warg picked himself up off the roof and searched furiously for his unexpected enemy. When he clapped eyes on the Elves, he paused for only a heartbeat before a roar of rage and warning tore from his throat. Then he launched himself from the top of the wagon, raising his jagged sword as he soared towards them. Tauriel palmed the twin daggers that hung at her hips and lifted them just in time to parry the falling blow.

Sparks flew when the three blades met. The orc ground his sword against her knives and leaned in close enough for her to feel the heat of his fetid breath. He snarled when he found her unyielding, his eyes glowing red with frustration. Tauriel heaved against him with all her might and her daggers sang their freedom. She dropped to a crouch and swung out with her legs, balanced on her fists as she knocked the orc's feet from underneath him. Before he even knew what happened, the elleth leapt, cat-like, onto his chest and cut an X across his throat with both knives.

She brushed his spittle off her cheek with the back of her hand as she jumped to her feet. Legolas had left her to her own devices, plunging ahead into the fray. He spun like a dancer as he fought, switching from bow to blade and back again with his usual balletic agility. He had already cut down two orcs and was grappling with a third, who Tauriel knew was not long for this world.

The human merchants, on the other hand, did not fare so well. She counted at least five slain and another ten in close combat. They fought bravely, but they were no match for the brute strength of the orc pack.

Tauriel sprinted for the caravan, darting between two wagons to enter the arena. She pulled a pair of arrows from her quiver, firing one into the neck of a nearby warg and brandishing the second in her hand. To her left, a fresh-faced human boy fell to his knees under the weight of the orc bearing down upon him. He shook as he gripped his sword in a last effort to protect himself, but his courage failed him and his arms buckled. The orc lifted his mace, though he never got to use it—Tauriel lunged for him and scraped the arrow down his bare back, carving a thin line on his skin. He cried out in anger, but Tauriel had already rebounded out of reach by the time he whirled to meet her, nocking the arrow to her bow and sending it straight between his eyes.

The boy looked down at the orc's corpse, then up at her, agog.

"Who _are_ you?" he said. He struggled to his feet and pointed. "Look out!"

Tauriel spun on her heel, her daggers a silver circle around her. They sliced across the chest of another orc who had thought to catch her off guard. Inky blood spurted from the gash and sluiced from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground.

"I am someone who is not to be underestimated." She sheathed her daggers in favor of her bow again, flinging an arrow at a retreating warg. Less than a dozen orcs remained at the camp now; the rest had trampled on, already growing smaller as they rode north—focused on their real objective, Tauriel assumed. Those who had stayed behind must not have been able to pass up the temptation. _They would pay for giving into their appetite._

"Tauriel!"

Her gaze tracked to the center of the caravan, where three orc riders had Legolas hemmed in against the campfire, trying to force him into it. He was holding his own as well as he could, but it was a tight spot and getting tighter. Tauriel fired three arrows in rapid succession, each one thudding into its own orc spine. The wargs, however, were hardier than their riders, who collapsed rather obligingly. It would take more than a single arrow apiece to defeat them.

Tauriel's hands remembered her daggers as she closed the distance between her and her hunting partner. Legolas was deflecting the wargs' fangs with his own blades, though fending off three at once was a tricky business. Tauriel sprang at the nearest wolf, landing on its newly-vacated back. The moment it felt her weight, it howled and began to buck. She squeezed her legs against his sides to maintain her hold and planted her knives into its back. It screamed with pain, only convulsing more frantically in its efforts to dislodge her. Tauriel leaned across its neck so she could bury her daggers behind its ears. With one last rippling shudder it toppled; as soon as it hit the ground she rolled nimbly over her shoulder and onto one knee. An arrow nuzzled her bowstring before she had even righted herself. It found its mark in the jaw of the third warg, the last of the three still standing.

It trumpeted its fury and pounced. Tauriel did not act quickly enough. Its claws dug into her shoulders as it pinned her down, its lupine stink clogging her nose—it smelled like a festering wound, or raw meat rotting in the sun. She turned her face away from its gaping maw. Her fingers yearned for her knives, but her arms were practically immobile. Even if her bow hadn't been knocked aside in the collision, it would have been useless. Unless she could get her hands on her daggers, she would have the particular pleasure of knowing what warg-teeth felt like six inches deep in her skin.

A bowstring twanged, and the warg reared back. Tauriel's arms were free for an instant before the beast slammed down onto her chest again. An instant was all she needed. She yanked her daggers from their sheaths and drove them upward into the warg's throat. Thick blood spurted from the wound, splattering her face. Tauriel pulled her knives free and managed to scramble backwards from underneath the warg before it crushed her with its corpse. One of Legolas's arrows protruded from its spine.

The orcs who had lingered were now in retreat, following behind their brethren who had ridden ahead. As Tauriel got to her feet, she recognized the pale figure of the pack's leader doubling back to summon the stragglers. In the growing light she could see his blind eye clearly, a milky jewel in the distorted flesh of his face. He shouted something in the guttural orc-language and flourished his blade before turning his warg and racing north. Within the span of a breath, the orcs were gone, leaving several dead and more wounded in their wake.

"Are you all right?"

Tauriel turned to see the young boy she had rescued, sword trembling in his hand. Apart from a split lip and a cut on his arm, he had survived intact.

"I am unharmed," she said, putting away her knives. "You should look to your own kin." When she saw the disappointment in his eyes, she softened. "But thank you."

"No problem." He was staring at her curiously. "Why did those orcs attack us?"

"That's a good question," came a new voice. It belonged to an older man, who limped over on his walking stick. One of his sleeves was soaked with blood, but he seemed more interested in them than in his wound. "I've got another one for you. What are two Elves doing out of Mirkwood? Didn't think you lot liked to leave your cozy little forest."

"Our business is not your concern," Legolas said. He was reclaiming his arrows from the various bodies they'd made homes in, eliciting an unpleasant squelching sound every time he wrenched one free.

"I'd say it became our concern when it stomped through our home," the man said, his cheeks going red and splotchy. "Now, I appreciate you helping us out, but I think you owe us an explanation."

A small crowd had started to gather around them, gawking. A few of them murmured their agreement.

"We owe you nothing." Legolas glowered at the instigator. "We answer to no mortal."

"How's the weather up there on your high horse, elfling?" The man rapped his staff on the ground in displeasure. "Bet it's nice and chilly."

"Uncle Oswin!" the boy said.

Legolas stepped forward, his eyes a flash of frost, his fingers grazing his ear. Tauriel intercepted him easily by moving into his path.

"Enough." The word resonated in the caravan circle. She swiveled her head to look at Legolas out of the corner of her eye. "_Daro, mellon_." She rested a hand on his forearm. "_Man cerig _?" He smoldered silently, but did not answer. Satisfied that he would make no further threats, Tauriel glanced back at the inquisitive merchant—Oswin, she surmised. "You speak a little too boldly, but I understand that you speak from grief. I wish that your family did not have to see such needless suffering. Know that we did not willingly bring this upon you. Our tale is a long one, and my companion is right—our affairs are not yours to know. Suffice it to say that the orcs seek something that is not theirs, which is why we hunt them. You simply happened to be in their way."

"Are they going to Lake-town?" The lad's lower lip quivered.

Tauriel paused. Her audience held its collective breath. "Yes." Gasps fluttered around her. "We hope to stop them before they can wreak too much havoc. Which is why we must go after them at once." She already chafed at the few minutes' delay they'd spent here. "I am sorry that we cannot stay and help with your wounded."

"It's all right," the boy said quickly. "Isn't it, uncle?"

Oswin groused under his breath.

"Can we offer you anything before you go?" said the boy. "Food, water, weapons?"

Tauriel shook her head, her copper sheen of hair grazing her shoulders. "We cannot afford to tarry any longer. Watch out for yourselves, and stay wary—the world grows wilder every day."

"So it would seem," said Oswin.

"Thank you," his nephew said, determinedly ignoring him. "Good luck!"

The elleth pressed her hand to her chest and rewarded him with a small bow of respect. She nodded to Legolas, who had been minding his temper for the last few minutes, apparently not trusting himself to speak after his near-altercation with Oswin. Together they jogged out of the enclosure of the caravan, heading north into the open expanse of land that remained between them and Lake-town. They increased their pace to a steady run. The yellow yolk of the sun was squeezing over the ridge of mountains on their right, spilling golden light across the grass and onto the windowpane lake. The endless cavern of the sky opened an intense yearning somewhere deep inside Tauriel; there was no sky like this in Mirkwood. The peak of the Lonely Mountain burned like a brand against the blue, the snow wrapped around its heights shining with the sunrise.

How could something so beautiful conceal so much evil? Tauriel marveled. She expected that the dwarves would be starting their journey to the mountain soon, trusting that they had not run into any further trouble. Kili had told her of their quest to reclaim their homeland, when she had spoken with him the night they were imprisoned in Thranduil's halls. She had heard the Elvenking himself speak of the Arkenstone, how Thorin Oakenshield sought it for its bestowal of the right to rule. She was unfamiliar with the nuances of dwarven royalty, but she did know this: a dragon slumbered in Erebor, and he would not take kindly to intruders. Though the dwarves might have escaped from her own realm, and even if they managed to evade capture by their orcish hunters, they would still have Smaug the Golden to contend with. Tauriel did not envy them that. She would much rather deal with the orcs.

The pack had a small advantage on them now, perhaps a few miles. Tauriel could feel weariness grasping at her, though she would not give into it. They had killed only less than a third of the orcs at the caravan; more than twenty still ran ahead of them. They would reach Lake-town by nightfall. If Tauriel was right about the dwarves departing before the evening, then they would have to pursue them further north, towards Dale and the Lonely Mountain itself. She stole a glance at Legolas. His legs were pumping efficiently as they ran, his eyes narrowed at the quarry ahead of them. He'd certainly proven his dedication to their mission so far, but what would he say about venturing as far as Erebor? To what extent would he be willing to defy his father?

He sensed her gaze and looked over at her. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said. "I am glad you came."

"So am I," the prince said. The hint of a smile traipsed across his lips. "If I had not, there would be no one to tell you that your face is covered with warg blood."

Tauriel grimaced. The touch of a finger to her cheek confirmed it. "You let me speak to those mortals with this on me the entire time? No wonder they looked at me so strangely."

Now he was grinning. "I am sure they found it most fearsome."

She scrubbed at her skin with her sleeve. "The next time you have something foul on _your_ face, I will elect not to tell you and see how you like it."

"Ah, but Tauriel," said Legolas with an air of mischief, "you must remember that I am a prince of the Woodland Realm. I never have something foul on my face."

"Of course," the captain said. "On your most radiant visage, the foul becomes fair, the dark becomes luminous, and so on and so forth. How could I forget?"

The wind carried their laughter across the lake, where it mingled with the howls of the wargs they hunted.

* * *

**Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed/faved/followed this story...this is my first fic in a very long time and the positive reactions are very encouraging to me. I really appreciate your thoughts and support. I'm excited about my ideas for this story and I hope you'll keep reading to see where it goes :) Thanks again!**

**Love, Quill**


	4. In the Eaves of Esgaroth

The day stretched on stubbornly. Tauriel felt bleached by the sun, which had burned in full force all afternoon without a single cloud getting a word in edgewise. They had not lagged once—they could not, for their quarry seemed to have no notion of rest. To their frustration, the orcs maintained their lead, and try as they might, the Elves could not seem to gain on them.

Whatever warg blood remained on Tauriel's face had been eroded by the wind. It whipped off the water, chilly even in the warmth of the noontime sun, and soughed at her skin until her cheeks were dry and clean.

She was almost grateful when the light began to dwindle, stretching their two pointy-eared shadows tall on the grass. Dusk whispered across the Long Lake like a secret, the sun wearying towards Mirkwood, which seemed to reel it into its depths. _Consuming it, as it does all things that get too close, _Tauriel thought. A quilt of clouds moved in just as the stars began to appear. The elleth could not help but feel disappointed when the night sky grew overcast; she had been looking forward to the revelry of stars more than she had known. Now when the moon rose it did so behind a veil, thin enough that she could see the outline of its face and just an impression of its light.

It seemed an ill omen; in fact, the entire evening was altogether too eerie for Tauriel's liking. They drew very near Lake-town now, so close that they could hear the normal human sounds of conversation and laughter, boats moving in the canals, the percussion of hundreds of feet on the wharves. These noises failed to comfort her, knowing as she did what was coming to interrupt them. More than that, Tauriel feared what those sounds could not tell her: what had happened to the dwarves, and whether all of them were still alive. She did not know if she truly wanted to find out, aware that the answer might not be what she hoped.

The great bridge of Lake-town came into view, a single pier stretching from the shore to the water-bound settlement itself. There was no other way to reach the town on foot. Tauriel willed herself to run swifter as the orc pack arrived at the crossing, a mile or so ahead of them. She watched the grisly cavalcade as it unspooled along the bridge.

"They are dismounting," Legolas said. "They are leaving the wargs behind."

"They would only encumber them," Tauriel answered. "I suppose they have chosen the way of stealth."

"So it would seem."

The orcs proved the truth of her conjecture when they scaled the outer wall and began to leap from roof to roof. The low commotion of Lake-town continued on, undisturbed and oblivious. If anyone happened to look up, they might think they only saw a shadow, or perhaps a ghost. The mind always saw what it wanted to see.

Soon—though not soon enough—the Elves reached the bridge, the feel of the wood strange beneath their feet after a day and a half of running on the soft grass. Their boots thumped against the planks as they raced across the wharf. Lake-town loomed ahead of them, spilling lamplight onto the group of wargs milling near its gate.

"We have no time to spare on the wolves," Legolas said.

Tauriel nodded. Killing the orcs' steeds would be useful, but no better than slaying the orcs themselves, if they could. She was already trying to figure out just how they could sidestep the wargs without alerting the pair of orc grunts that had stayed behind to guard them.

"We must get above," she said. "Keep right before the gate. We can use—"

"The crates against the wall," Legolas finished. "A far cry from the branches of Mirkwood, but I suppose they will do."

"How does the old adage go? Oh, I know—beggars can't be choosers."

"I would not go so far as to call us _beggars_." Tauriel heard the frown in his tone. She shook her head.

"Royalty," she muttered.

"Come again?"

"I said, quite distinctly, 'barrel tree.' That's what we'll be climbing."

The prince did not have time to respond to her quip; they were close enough now to the warg pack that the need for silence was upon them. Tauriel fell in behind Legolas so that they ran single file along the right edge of the wharf. They made no effort to lighten their tread, as the Elves were naturally soundless in their movement—a trait that came in quite handy in Mirkwood, where stealth often meant survival. The orcs had herded their wargs as far to the left of the gate as they could manage in a half-hearted and mostly unsuccessful attempt to stay out of sight. Since there was no light source behind them, Tauriel guessed that she and Legolas would appear invisible, blending into the night. The orcs would be hard-pressed to make out their forms in the darkness; after all, their kind was not renowned for their acuity of vision. They hunted very differently from Elves.

Still, she gritted her teeth as they approached the gate. Two watchtowers bookended the great wooden door, closed and manned by several sentries who were obviously asleep at their posts. They had to be, or else Tauriel would have to attribute their failure to raise the alarm as sheer incompetence.

She kept hard on Legolas's heels as he bore right, steering towards the immense stockpile of crates stacked against the outer wall. The boxes scraped together when Legolas leapt onto them, but other than that his climb was completely silent. Tauriel slung her bow across her chest and followed, adjusting her weight when she found the containers empty of any cargo. After that, it was merely a matter of balance and efficiency. She ascended the crates with feline precision, inventing handholds where she needed them and swaying the stack as little as she could manage. She ignored Legolas's extended hand when she crowned the wall—he liked to forget that though he might be the prince, _she_ was captain of the guard, and perfectly capable of looking after herself. Arching a brow, she vaulted over the wall and landed next to him on the rooftop. The slope was so steep that she had to grip tightly with the soles of her feet to keep from sliding.

"They are separating," Legolas said quietly.

Tauriel's gaze quested out across the rooftops, a strange sea filled with waves of thatch and wood. Shaded moonlight fell across the eaves and illuminated the blanched bodies of the orcs, who had split up in their search of Lake-town.

"They know no better than we where the dwarves are." Her fingers itched for her bow, even though her targets were out of range.

"Which raises the question, who do we seek first?"

"The leader," she said at once. "If we capture him, we could learn the identity of this foul scheme's architect. Since your father saw fit to behead the last orc we took prisoner."

Legolas made a noise of disgust. "This time, he will not be able to interfere."

"I do not think we should split up." Tauriel's eyes narrowed as she took inventory of their prey, scattered as they were amidst the town's rafters.

"No. We will lose our advantage if we do."

"We have an advantage?"

"They hunt game that is hidden from them. We know exactly where our quarry is." Legolas turned his head towards her, teeth glinting in the half-light. His smile held about as much humor as a scimitar.

Speech became superfluous as they moved over Lake-town. They took their cues from body language: a flash of the eyes, a tilt of the head, the curve of the other's shoulders intimating which direction to take. Tauriel was more thankful than ever for the physical vocabulary that they shared between them. It made it much easier to navigate the sharp angles of Esgaroth. These roofs were much more plainspoken than the knotwork of Mirkwood, but traversing them seemed somehow less intuitive to the Silvan elf. After centuries of learning the spirals of the trees by heart, it was odd to deal in straight lines and absolutes.

Laughter seemed to be the chief order of business in the streets, and Tauriel's sensitive nose picked up the smell of alcohol underneath the much heavier odors of fish, ice, and water-mold. _Let it never be said that this place is bland. _It became increasingly difficult for the elleth to avoid casting her gaze to the paths and waterways below them. Time and time again she thought she glimpsed one of the dwarves, only to realize that none of the dwarves were that tall, and that her vantage point was playing tricks on her eyes.

The rough weave of the orcish tongue made Tauriel look up. They were about to butt heads with a group of three orcs a few rooftops away. The trio had taken no notice of the Elves closing in on them; they were distracted by something on the ground. One of them stretched to his full height and flailed his sword in the air, the metal flaring dimly. A soft growl spread across Lake-town, a signal that sent a tingle down Tauriel's spine. A call to arms.

"No." The word leapt from her mouth before she could stop it.

"They have succeeded," Legolas breathed.

"We must stop them!" Tauriel sprang up from her crouch behind the ridge of the roof. Almost immediately, Legolas jerked her back down. He grasped a handful of her hem, holding her fast. "What are you doing? They have not succeeded _yet_!"

"This situation requires caution," he said. "We cannot rush in blindly, we need a plan of attack—"

"I will not sit here and watch the dwarves die," Tauriel snapped. "Do what you will, Thranduil-son, but I must act and you will not hinder me!"

Taken aback by her outburst, Legolas slackened his grip, allowing Tauriel to hurl herself onto the other side of the roof. She skidded down the shingles, arms out for balance, and shoved off the gutter. She soared through the air and struck the gable of the next house over, pushing against it and boomeranging backwards. The railing of a balcony below rushed up to meet her. She twisted in midair and put out her hands, though it did little to lessen the impact when she crashed into the balcony. The railing rammed into her stomach, deflating her lungs, but she could scarce pause to recover her breath. She guided her hands down the posts that supported the rail, dangling her legs for an eyeblink before dropping to the ground below.

Tauriel did not waste another second. She tore down the wooden street, wending her way through the passersby as she headed in the direction of the orcs. A shadow overhead caught her eye—she looked up to see Legolas sailing over the gap between two houses. Apparently her refusal to wait had spurred him to action. _Good_.

The mortals crowding the streets gave her strange looks as she ran, moving out of her path so she had a clear shot. A faint scream to the south made her ears twitch. It sounded like a young girl—that was unexpected. She made a hard left and bucketed down the path in the direction of the sound, which was joined now by the snarls of the orc hunters. Then a third layer added itself to the mix, the noise that Tauriel had both hoped and feared to hear: the raised voices of the dwarves. Panic clouded her senses, so she could not count their number by ear, but she could tell there were no more than four or five at the most.

_Who was left behind?_

Even as she asked the question, Tauriel knew the answer.

She rounded a corner and spotted the orcs two buildings away. Several of them were rioting up the stairwell of a house on the canal, trying to force the front door open. Someone inside was holding it shut, but they could not barricade it for long. Without missing a beat, Tauriel loosed a volley of arrows into the steeple of orcs, still running as she fired again and again. She had almost made it to the stairs when the door gave out and the pack funneled into the house.

"_Daro!_ " Tauriel cried, forgetting in her passion that the orcs could not understand Sindarin even if they wanted to. Her knives screamed double as she drew them, taking the steps three at a time and slashing out at every orc she passed. She did not stop to see if her blows were lethal—she had only one goal, one thought seared into her mind. _Get to the dwarves. _She reached the top of the stairs, kneed an orc in the groin and threw him over the banister, headfirst into the water with a terrific splash. But there were more, so many more, some already in the house, others clambering up the stairs behind her.

Where was Legolas when she needed him? He had all but vanished. She refused to believe that he had abandoned their mission—abandoned her—but she had no time to dwell on the errant prince. She smashed her hilt into the temple of an oncoming orc and felt the eggshell crunch of bone. _That_ one had been lethal. She pivoted on her heel, flung herself through the doorframe and into the small home beyond.

The room was in an uproar. A pair of young girls dove underneath the kitchen table as two dwarves—one blonde, the other gray-haired—fought to stave off the attack. And there, on a bed on the far side of the room, lay Kili. Drenched in sweat and trembling, he struggled to prop himself up, his dark eyes wild with poison. Relief and fear washed over the Elf in equal measure, their contradiction an ember in her throat. His eyes met hers, and Tauriel thought she glimpsed the courage and the warm sincerity she had seen in him before. It was that same spark of Kiliness that had kindled this strange wonderment within her, lit the strength of conviction that had stripped all doubts from her mind and buoyed her heart with hope.

As she watched, the spark faded, and the hope with it. Anger deepened into a slow burn that touched her very core. Her daggers ached in her fists. _They are as bloodthirsty as I am. I have taught them well._ She tightened her fingers around their hilts and set her jaw as the orcs turned toward her.

"Well, filth," she said, "I hope you have not grown overly fond of living."

Tauriel spun her daggers in her hands and leapt forward.

* * *

**Thanks for your patience and your continuing support! Sorry if I don't get the upcoming sequence quite accurate to how it happens in the movie...I've only seen DoS twice and I can't remember the exact order of events, but I figure it's all right, since I've already taken a few liberties with the plot in this fic anyway.**

Love, Quill


	5. Poison or Pursuit?

Legolas had not abandoned the mission. Neither had he abandoned Tauriel; it just so happened that their paths had diverged. After the captain's act of defiance, Legolas had not quite known what to do. He was saved the trouble of deciding when he spotted the orc leader and three of his henchmen break off from the rest of the group. The four of them kept to the roofs as the others scuttled to the ground, following the same route from above. Curious, Legolas watched them as they scampered. It was as if the leader wanted his underlings to do the dirty work for him, choosing not to get involved until they had found what he sought. The prince wondered if Tauriel would be a big enough incentive to entice the leader down.

"That elleth will be the death of me," he said to himself. Throwing caution to the wind—a highly uncharacteristic move for him—Legolas rose from his hiding place and pattered down the slope of the roof. He bounded across the gap and up the next roof, cresting its peak and turning so his feet balanced on the ridge. The orcs were straight ahead, only a few buildings away, and they had not noticed him. Legolas drew a preemptive arrow, inhaled deeply, and began to run.

A thrill coursed through him, sheer delight at his own brazen recklessness as he made jumps that were a little too wide to be advisable—and still he made them. He was a silent phantom haunting the chimneys of Lake-town, swift and fleeting as a gust of wind. Ahead of him, the orcs were shouting in their ugly language, the leader gesturing to his forces below. At his cue, the orcs on the street turned south. Legolas watched as they surrounded a house that overhung the water, and his ears caught the sound of girlish screams carried on the breeze. Meanwhile, the leader and his followers shinnied down the northern side of their building, howling in delight. Whatever they were hunting, they were about to take it down.

Legolas threw himself from the roof, making an unlikely landing on the corner of a balcony one level down. From there he could see the orcs' target—it was one of the dwarves. The ellon had no inkling which one it was; they all looked the same to him. He was hustling in the direction of the house now under siege, an abominable excuse for a hat on his head and a clump of leaves clutched in his hands. He had led the orcs straight to the dwarves' hideout. How convenient. How many of them were in that house? Legolas wondered. Whoever had remained in Lake-town was about to be slaughtered, unless Tauriel could stay on top of the situation until he got there.

The dwarf pulled up short when the orcs fell out of the sky, dropping into his path like a quartet of giant albino spiders.

"That's right," said Legolas under his breath. "Stop and stare, you imbecilic dwarf." He lifted his bow almost lazily and shot one of the orcs dead in the eye.

His comrades dissolved into a frenzy, combing the streets for the hidden archer. The leader, who had hung back behind the other three, roared his displeasure. He barked an order before loping off towards the battle beyond, leaving the remaining pair to their fate.

Legolas leapt from his perch, dispatching both of them with one deft arrow each. The last arrow whizzed perilously close to the dwarf's head, the wind from its shaft riffling his hat.

"Mind your aim!" The dwarf glanced over his shoulder as Legolas jogged up. "That's my favorite hat, that is. My only hat, if you're picky."

"And here I would have thought to be more concerned about the head underneath it." Legolas did not bother to disguise his annoyance at the dwarf's snide attitude.

"Heads may come and heads may go, but hats, dear fellow, are forever," he said in a sing-song tone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get these back to m'lad Kili." He jiggled the plant in his hands, which Legolas now recognized as athelas. "Thanks for the rescue. Cheers!" Doffing his hat, the dwarf trotted off towards the house, hopping over the three orc bodies, not yet cold where they lay.

"Thank you," Legolas muttered, "for reminding me why I dislike dwarves." He could hardly believe he was about to risk his neck for that oaf a second time. But if he did not go after him, there was little chance he would make it back to his injured friend without a limb or two missing, himself. Misplaced optimism would do nothing to get him through that orc horde. Heaving a sigh, Legolas started after him. "This had better make you happy, Tauriel."

* * *

Tauriel was far from happy. She plunged her left-hand dagger into the chest of an orc coming at her from the corner. It was a good hard stick—so snugly placed that she could not get the blade free again.

"Watch out!" the fair-haired dwarf said. Tauriel heard a scuffle in the doorway behind her and realized she needed to recover her knife fast or else leave it in the orc's chest.

She settled for neither. Clenching the hilt, she ran at the wall, using the leverage of the planted dagger and her own momentum to scramble up the side and back towards the door. She catapulted herself from the corner, pinwheeling her legs and slamming her heels into the head of the orc who had the audacity to sneak up behind her. When she landed, the knife twisted sickeningly in its victim's sternum and came loose in time for Tauriel to tally two gashes in the ribs of the next orc. There was no shortage of enemies to fight; they kept streaming in through the door. She cut down as many as she could, but they were arriving too quickly for her to deal with all at once.

A handful of orcs slipped past her, hounding the pair of dwarves that stood as a shield between Kili and the fight. The grey-haired one was slow to react, but he was fierce enough; he had already felled two assailants. The younger one, the blond that Tauriel recognized as Kili's brother, fought with an admirable fury, though it made his blows somewhat sloppy, if no less effective. As valiantly as they defended their companion, the two of them could not stanch the flow of orcs as they swept into the cramped space. Out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel saw one bypass the dwarves, lunging for Kili.

A feral cry ripped from her throat. Her bow flew into her hands, as if she had called it by name. But her hold slipped when someone seized her hood and dragged her back. Her poised arrow escaped from the string, clipping the orc's arm, and struck one of the bedposts. Cursing her own clumsiness, Tauriel bashed her elbow into the nose of the orc that had ruined her shot. She whirled around to knock the stunned orc's weapon from his hand. Her impatience got the better of her then; flipping her knife in her palm, she pounded the butt of its hilt into his face, again and again and again and again.

He had not even hit the floor before Tauriel turned and dashed across the room. Kili had locked swords with the orc that was menacing him, still lying on the bed, but his whole body shook from the strain. Tauriel was on the table in a flash, upsetting a bowl of walnuts. She reached out with her bow, hooked it around the orc's neck, and yanked him back. She held his body against her own, digging the bow into his flesh until it strangled him. His hands scrabbled at his throat, sword falling forgotten to the floor. Kili slid over the edge of the bed and slumped to the ground, landing on all fours. A fresh wave of fear surged through Tauriel—had the orc wounded him a second time?

The dwarf stirred, struggling to his knees with a cry of anguish. His voice pierced Tauriel like a shard of ice. Not dead, not yet, but close—she knew the sound of someone who thought he was about to die and no longer cared what happened to him.

Kili thrust with his sword, driving it deep into the belly of the choking orc. Black blood sprayed his face. Tauriel slipped her bow free and shoved the orc to the side, staring down at Kili, who looked up at her, his once-handsome eyes now pearly with the poison that enthralled him. He did not know her.

"Kili—"

She had no chance to say more. A hand grabbed her hair and hauled her mercilessly from the table, walnuts rolling everywhere. Tauriel screamed and dropped her bow, lashing out with her feet, but the orc had a good grip on her, and he held her in place so she had nowhere to run. She drew her daggers and deflected not only the orc in front of her, but the captor at her back as well. It was a delicate balance, and hard to maintain when one of them had a fistful of her hair limiting her mobility. Having her hair held hostage made her angrier than anything else so far. She snarled her frustration as she parried two blows at once. _Where was that self-important princeling when you needed him?_

Suddenly the pressure on her scalp released. The orc's death shriek nearly deafened her, but it was music to her ears. Overjoyed at having full control of her body again, Tauriel hailed a flurry of attacks onto the opponent before her, bombarding him until he fumbled his weapon and she opened his throat with a graceful swipe of her knives. She watched him as he lay twitching at her feet, relishing the moment when his body gave up and went still. It was the ultimate satisfaction.

She turned to see Kili's brother gaping at her, his own knife embedded in the other orc's skull.

"No one touches my hair," she said acidly, as if that explained the whole thing.

The throb of a bowstring and the howl of an orc heralded Legolas's arrival. Tauriel heard the prince's footsteps on the stairwell seconds before he burst into the room, finishing off the last two orcs in the house with a pair of arrows. His eyes took in the scene before him, bright and disbelieving.

Outside, the orcs were shouting to each other. Judging from sounds alone, Tauriel thought they were moving off, surrendering their efforts to slay the dwarves. They must have realized that most of the company was elsewhere—their real prize was obviously Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the group and the heir of Durin's line. Tauriel was glad that the dwarves here would be safe for the time being, but her heart sank when she realized she would need to leave again to pursue the orc pack north, onward to the Lonely Mountain.

"Tauriel, come." Legolas did not wait to see if she would obey. He sprinted out the door and down the stairs. She heard an arrow _whoosh_ and plunk solidly into its target.

He was right—they should go. Their task was to track down and kill the orc party, a task they had not yet completed. A handful of orcs, including the leader, still lived. Tauriel had every intention of fulfilling her promise to help the dwarves, but something was holding her back. She turned and looked over her shoulder at Kili; the two other dwarves were trying to hoist him up off the floor, though they were having a hard time of it. He kept pushing them away, calling out and trembling uncontrollably. The Morgul poison had seized him. If she left now, he would die, or worse—he would succumb to the shadow world.

A fearsome hollowness emptied into Tauriel, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. Her bones were caverns, her heart a honeycomb, her very soul nothing more than echo in some great lost place. She faced her desolation and named it doubt. Never before had she been called to make such a gut-wrenching decision, where both choices were right and both were wrong at the same time. What she had wanted was to make a difference—not knowing it would come down to choosing one difference, and only one, to make.

"Tauriel!"

Legolas's voice resounded in her hollowness, filling it momentarily. On instinct she hastened to the door, her body choosing to follow her hunting partner, purely out of habit. They had orcs to chase.

Out on the porch, Tauriel nearly fell over a fourth dwarf who came beetling up the stairs. She recognized him from his stint in the Woodland Realm: the one with the questionable hat. It was hard not to stare at it. He stared back at her, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Her gaze finally quit his hat and trailed down to his hands, which crushed a clump of white-flowering plants between them.

She could not believe her eyes. She blinked several times, very deliberately, to make sure this was no delusion. When nothing changed, Tauriel reached out and took the plant from the dwarf without asking permission. She turned it over in her hands, trying to authenticate it. Indeed she could find no fault with it—it was the genuine article, none other than a bundle of athelas, an herb with remarkable healing properties. Few folk beyond Elvendom were wise to its powers. Tauriel was shocked that this dwarf would think to seek it out, and even more surprised that he had actually found it here in Lake-town.

He goggled up at her. "What are you doing?"

Tauriel brought the athelas to her face. The scent from the bruised leaves lifted the shadow hanging over her, filling the aching hollowness with calm confidence. She raised her chin and looked down at the dwarf. Her decision had been made.

"I'm going to save him."

* * *

**Guys, I'm so excited to have Tauriel and Kili in the same scene together finally! I hope you are too. Right now I'm planning on continuing this fic beyond the end of DoS. Thanks for reading and reviewing! :D**

**Love, Quill**


	6. A Light in the Dark

"Get him on the table," Tauriel commanded. She strode back into the house with military determination, hardly noticing the two mortal girls emerging from their hiding spot or the baffled looks she was getting from every dwarf but Kili. She turned to the kitchen alcove on the right and began to comb the counters and shelves, rifling through bottles and silverware and sacks of food. She blew out her breath in exasperation. Did humans call this clutter organization?

"Are you looking for something?" The quavering question came from her left. Tauriel looked down to see a little girl watching her timorously, rocking back and forth on her heels. She had sandy curls, a sincere face, and a doll made of fabric choked between her hands.

"Tilda, no—come away." Another girl, an older version of the one called Tilda, grabbed her sister and towed her away from Tauriel. A gangly boy rushed to join them, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

"I mean no harm to you or your family," the Elf said, sensing their apprehension. "I need boiling water, and I need it fast. Can you do that for me?"

Tilda tugged at her older sister's skirts. "Sigrid, please. He's going to die if we don't help them."

Sigrid paused. Tauriel met her defiant gaze evenly, willing her to understand. Finally the girl nodded. "Bain, fetch the water. I'll—"

"No," Tauriel said swiftly, stepping in front of the door. "I would not let your family leave this house without protection."

"I'll get the water," said the dwarf with the hat. "If there are any orcs left out there, I'll be the death of them, never you fear, lasses." He prized the pail from Bain's hand and jostled Tauriel out of the way before anyone could level a protest at him.

"Fine." Sigrid put a hand to her brow, thinking. "You can heat the stove instead. Tilda, go get some fresh linens—clean cloth and bandages. Don't dawdle!" Tilda took this to heart, racing off at once, and Bain hurried to the stove as Sigrid fetched a pot. With nothing left to do but wait, Tauriel turned to see that the dwarves had ignored her previous directive. The fair-haired one was cradling Kili in his arms on the floor while the other fussed at them like a mother hen.

"Are you deaf?" she cried. "Or simply obtuse?"

The older one frowned at her, raising a metal trumpet to his ear. "What was that?"

"Get him up! We must keep him from fading!"

"Who do you think you are?" the blond one said. "You don't have any right to order us about. You—"

"Don't have any right?" Tauriel hissed, advancing on him. "Do you want Kili to die? Do you want a wraith for a brother?"

The dwarf flinched, but he refused to back down, even as his older companion began to clear a space on the table. "We wouldn't be in this position if your folk hadn't taken it upon yourselves to interfere," he spat. "If you hadn't locked us up, we wouldn't have had to escape your halls, and Kili would never have been shot in the first place!"

"Fili." The hat dwarf had returned with a full bucket of lake-water. "Peace, lad. She's only trying to help now. We'd be dead if she hadn't showed up. Be a good fellow and do as she says."

Tauriel was relieved that their argument had ended there. She had no defense for his last accusation, which held a shameful ring of truth. She wrenched her mind away from the thought; this was no time for regret. She rounded the table and bent to lift Kili onto the table, but Fili gave her a look of such venom that she froze before she even came close to touching him. He scooped up his brother without her help and edged him onto the table. The gray-haired dwarf had gathered the walnuts back into their bowl, and he nestled Kili's head amongst them in an approximation of a pillow. Privately Tauriel thought it did not look especially comfortable, but clearly no one was interested in her help, so she collected the bundle of athelas from the counter and crossed to the stove. Sigrid had a huge pot going on it, and already the water had started to boil.

"Excuse me," Tauriel said stiffly, pushing between the mortal children and the dwarf. She felt very strange and out of place in this household, where no one seemed to welcome her presence, nor think much of her desire to aid Kili. The dwarves were no better than Legolas—they obviously believed she should have nothing to do with them, and that she did not belong in their company. But she would not let that stop her from doing what was right.

She began to tear the herbs into large pieces, crushing the flowers with her thumbs. The fragrance that rose from the broken athelas was pungent and soothing at the same time. Beside her, the dwarf sighed wistfully.

"You did well," she told him as she scattered the pieces on the surface of the water. "I am impressed that you thought to look for this."

"The name's Bofur, if you please, ma'am." He touched the brim of his hat by way of introduction. "And begging your pardon, but dwarves aren't ignorant about everything in the world. We know things, same as Elves." Tauriel felt a flush rise high on her cheekbones. "Óin over there, the chap with the ear horn, knows a fair bit of herblore. The kingsfoil was his idea. Fancies himself an apothecary, he does."

Tauriel was struggling to come up with a response that had no potential to offend anyone when the girl Tilda stumbled back into the room, bumping into Tauriel as she skidded to a halt. The elleth blinked at her, not entirely at ease with the idea of children, particularly ones who appeared to have no compunction about being in close proximity to her. Tilda carried an enormous heap of linens in her arms, so tall it covered the lower half of her face and muffled her voice.

"I've got them," she panted. She held them out for Tauriel as the warrior sorted through them, selecting a small, plain cloth for now. She lowered it into the steaming water, wrung it out, and brought it over to the table where Kili writhed, delirious and foggy-eyed. Fili clutched his hand and Óin held his feet for fear that his movements would roll him off the table and onto the floor.

Tauriel paused as she reached for the soiled bandage wrapped around Kili's knee. Her gaze flicked across the table to Fili, who wore an expression of reluctant resignation. Taking that as permission to do what she would, Tauriel undid the knot in the bandage and peeled it away, revealing the gruesome puncture underneath. Dried blood crusted the wound where the bolt had pierced Kili's knee. Worse than that, though, were the dark lines running out from it, ribbons of poison striping his skin. He moaned when she wiped away the old blood with the athelas-infused cloth. The sound of his pain was a fang in her heart.

_A good healer is implacable_, she reminded herself. _Dauntless and efficient_. Tuning out his groans, she imagined armor plating her body, a barrier that would deflect any distraction, emotional or otherwise. Holding her head high, she went back to the stove, where Bofur and the two girls waited with bated breath.

"I need the athelas now—the kingsfoil," Tauriel told Sigrid. "Help me."

She held a cloth across the mouth of the pail that Bofur had used, while Sigrid poured the water through, straining it so that the cloth caught the pieces of athelas. Tauriel folded them up and patted them dry. She ground them between the heels of her bare hands, working them into a damp paste until her palms were sticky with them, and the scent was almost overpowering.

"Hold him down."

Bofur and the two girls joined the other dwarves in their efforts to keep Kili still, though it was no small task—the poison had its claws in him now, and he was too far gone to be reasoned with or even recognize the faces of the friends around him. Tauriel felt her armor cracking as she approached the table and looked again on his tormented face. She drew in a long breath, sharpened her focus, and began to speak in Sindarin.

The healing words flowed easily from her lips, a chant that matched the cadence of the pulse quickening beneath her skin, the melody of her own hope singing in her blood. As she immersed herself in the music of the incantation, the world fell away. She forgot that she had an audience, forgot that there were still enemies abroad, forgot the laws she had flouted to come here, the resistance she had faced from the very people who should have understood her mission. For one fierce moment, she was alone with Kili, who thrashed on the table before her as the poison dragged him under.

_You will not have him!_

Tauriel laid her hands, caked in athelas, upon his wound, and felt her eyes flutter closed. She saw herself as a sudden flame leaping up in a deep well of darkness. She walked in a veil of shadow more potent than night, where no stars glimmered. To the untrained eye it seemed empty, but she knew Kili wandered there, lost as a memory in the depths of Arda's knowing, and that she must call him back. She sent out her own light, seeking like a pilgrim's lantern, and spoke his name into the void. _I remember you._

For a long time there was no answer. And then, when she thought perhaps that he had roamed too far—a spark. It ignited in the nothingness, small and yet radiant.

_Kili!_

She beckoned to him, the moon shepherding a fallen star. His spark grew like a story in the telling, larger and ever more courageous, until together they were luminous, undimmed. The darkness that had threatened to consume him was no more than a passing shadow, and the white light of forever filled the air.

_I remember you._


	7. Found

_Kili!_

His name splintered the silence. Was that his name? He had forgotten he had one of his own. It pealed again, a distant bell ringing out over an innominable land. He felt he had been walking there for lifetimes, lost without even knowing that he was lost. It was only when his name sounded as a carillon in the darkness that he realized he was more than a shade—he had a shape, and a mind, and a voice, and a heart.

The Kili-bell tolled again, casting out for him, searching. He turned and was blinded by a ray of light, like a thousand unknown stars shining as one.

_It is memory, precious and pure_.

He felt himself blaze up in response, his own spark so bright that he did not know himself.

He heard her voice, a high clear song like snowfall in the mountains. She reached for him, and he reached back.

He remembered.

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**I know it's a tiny update, but this was just how this chapter wanted to be. There will be another, longer chapter very soon.**

**Love, Quill**


	8. From Fever to Fire

When Tauriel opened her eyes, she wondered if the world had stopped. Everyone in the room had gone still, trapped as insects in amber. She looked down at her hands and saw that time had not frozen: she was shaking where she held the athelas against Kili's wound. The dwarf had ceased his thrashing. His chest rose and fell like an impatient bellows, and Tauriel's sharp hearing caught the sound of his heart in its net—fast and reckless, but ardent. _Just like him_. Tauriel hid the smile that coaxed the corners of her lips.

"Kili," Fili said weakly.

Tauriel lifted her hands from Kili's knee. "He is out of danger," she said. The group clustered around the table let out a collective sigh of relief, returning to their natural state of motion.

Fili's eyes met hers. She recognized the apology they held, the gratitude he could not bring himself to admit out loud. Tauriel inclined her head, almost imperceptibly, to show him she understood.

The others began to move away. The girls set about tidying up the room, which lay in shambles in wake of the battle.

"Ah, let us help you, lasses," Bofur said, jumping at the chance to do something. "We've a fair bit of scrubbing ahead of us if we want those stains out of the floor."

"The carpet will have to be burned," Óin declared. "Unless you want to keep it as a conversation piece."

Soon only Tauriel and Fili remained at Kili's side. Fili took his brother's hands between his own, watching him anxiously. Slumber had apparently claimed the invalid; his breathing had slowed to a normal rate and his head tipped to rest against one shoulder. A dew of sweat covered his skin and dampened his clothes. Tauriel touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

Fili noticed the fleeting crease in her brow. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Only a slight fever. It will be easy enough to break." When he did not look convinced, she added, "If he can beat back such a poison, he can survive a fever. Trust me when I say that your brother is strong."

"I know he is," Fili said, his tone subdued. After a pause, he snorted. "He's also an idiot."

"Why would you say that?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Tauriel allowed herself a small smile. "I may have picked up on a few…foolhardy tendencies."

The dwarf's beard twitched. "Are Elves always so diplomatic?"

"I suppose it depends on your definition of the word," Tauriel said. "If you count settling matters at knifepoint, then yes, we are exceedingly diplomatic."

Fili laughed outright, then checked himself when he remembered who he was talking to. He cleared his throat and glanced back at Kili, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "He tried to pretend he was all right," he said. "He didn't tell anyone how much it was bothering him, or else—" He cut himself off. "The rest of our company left this morning. Thorin wouldn't let Kili go on account of his injury." The memory clouded his pale eyes with indignation. "We were raised to worship the idea of Erebor. We dreamed of the day we would set foot there together. I should be there—we all should. But I wasn't about to leave him."

Tauriel sensed a question in his voice, saw the defiance in his squared shoulders. There was a deeper issue at play here, but she did not know it, so could not help him with his quandary. She had too many of her own to contend with. At least she had solved one of them, for the time being.

Both Tauriel and Fili turned at the sound of Kili's moan, but he was still half-asleep.

"He will be in pain when he wakes," the elleth said with a frown.

"What can I do?" Fili asked.

"Willow bark would help. See if they have any," Tauriel said. "If they do, brew it in a tea—it will bring down the fever and ease his pain."

The fair-haired dwarf nodded gravely, surrendering his brother's hand in favor of pursuing his newfound quest. Tauriel retrieved a fresh bandage from the nearby pile of linens and bound Kili's knee with deft yet gentle fingers. Only when that was done did she allow herself the luxury of cleaning her hands of the athelas. The herbs flaked away in soggy chunks, which she wrapped in the old bandage. She overheard a snatch of conversation from the kitchen as she scrubbed at the light green film lingering on her skin.

"I've heard tell of the wonders of Elvish medicine," Óin was saying. "That was a privilege to witness."

Gratitude flooded Tauriel unexpectedly; perhaps she was not so unwelcome after all.

"Tauriel."

The Elf turned. She had not known he was awake. She hardly recognized Kili's voice, and realized with a start that it had been days since she had heard it, and even then, it had only been for a short time. From his lips, her name sounded like a prayer.

"Lie still," she said, smiling softly. His belabored breaths betrayed him; he needed to rest, not to make conversation. She looked away, but it was out of self-imposed obligation and not true desire.

"You cannot be her."

Tauriel's heart hesitated. He spoke the words as though they were a secret even to him, and she thought perhaps she should not listen. But she could not find the willpower to turn aside from him. She wanted to know.

"She is far away," Kili said, faltering under the fever's sway. "She—she is far, far away from me. She walks . . . in starlight in another world."

Tauriel turned to him then. Her smile had slipped from her face, which could not hide the truth of her epiphany. His eyes sought hers, his brow bent with unadulterated longing.

"It was just a dream."

Kili's sorrow cut her to the quick. She did not know what to do. He was obviously delirious with fever, but he spoke with sincerity such as she had never heard before. His hand brushed hers in a whisper, shy and wondering.

Her fingers parted to twine with his. She had ceased to breathe.

"Do you think she could have loved me?"

Something tore within Tauriel, though what it was, she could not name. She opened her mouth, hoping the right words would conjure themselves from nowhere. But before she could even stammer a reply, a distant rumble sent a tremor through the house, making the walls hum and dust shower from the slats in the ceiling. The walnuts jockeyed with each other in their bowl. Everyone looked up from what they were doing. A sudden silence fell.

"What was that?" Sigrid said, but Tauriel saw the answer etched into her face. She already knew—they all did.

It came again, a roar that was like thunder and nothing like it. It had none of the same quiet contemplation, rain's cool forethought, or even the bright applause of thunder when it sounded in the middle of a storm. It made the hair on the back of Tauriel's neck stand up and listen. Her skin felt hot just to hear it, as though Kili had lent her his fever. A premonition of fire.

She found herself looking at Fili, who might as well have been made of stone. His fist clenched the hilt of the sword at his belt.

"He's coming," he said hoarsely. "The dragon is coming."

On the stove, the kettle began to shriek.

The sound shattered the trance that had fallen over Fili, and he flew across the room to where the boy Bain stood dumbfounded.

"Lad, where is your father? Where is Bard?"

When Bain did not answer, Fili seized him by the shoulders and shook him three times, hard. "The black arrow! Does your father have it? Where is he?"

"N-no," the boy stammered. "We got separated, and he gave me the arrow for safekeeping—but I think they took him."

"Who?" Sigrid cried. "Took him where, Bain?"

"The Master's men caught him," Bain said miserably. "I think they locked him up."

"It's not your fault, son," Óin said. "I'm sure there was nothing you could do."

"What happened to the arrow?" Fili demanded, still clutching him.

"I hid it a few blocks from here, in a fisherman's boat. No one will look there."

"Except for the fisherman!" Fili said.

"At this hour?" said Bofur. "Not likely—unless night fishing is a popular hobby in Lake-town."

Bain shook his curly head. "It's safe."

"The same cannot be said for the rest of your town," Tauriel said. She found herself quite unmoored by the conversation, ignorant to everything mentioned. "If the dragon is coming, we must get out, and quickly."

"Leave?" Sigrid looked at her askance. "We can't leave! Our father's in prison—we can't abandon him!"

"Neither can we." Fili released Bain and faced Tauriel. "Their father is Bard, descendent of Girion. Ring any bells?" The name did sound familiar to the elleth, but she could not put a story to it. "Girion was Lord of Dale when Smaug laid waste to the city—he made a stand against the dragon, and he might have killed him, had his aim been smarter."

"It wasn't his fault," Bain said fiercely. "At least he tried. At least he did something!"

"We aren't here to churn up old grievances," Óin said. "Fili means no offense against your ancestor."

"It doesn't matter," Fili said. "The important bit is, somehow Bard inherited the last arrow, the one that Girion died before he could fire. Bard left with it before the orcs arrived, meaning to use it against the dragon—somehow he knew it would come to this. But it seems that his mission failed before it could even get off the ground." He gave Bain a sharp look. "That arrow is the only thing that can pierce Smaug's hide. Without it, we don't have a chance of slaying him before he destroys us."

"This town is pure timber," said Tauriel. "It is no match for a fire-breather."

"Maybe it isn't and maybe it is," Bofur said, "but either way, I'd wager we have to try and do something. I'm not much for abandoning these folk."

Tauriel's first instinct was to argue, to insist upon as much of an evacuation as they could manage. But she doubted the dragon would stop at simply burning Lake-town. If he saw its people fleeing, he would give chase. They could not possibly outrun the great drake. It would be folly to try.

The Elf glanced down at Kili. He was struggling to stay conscious, his fingers still laced with hers. Had she saved him so that he could live to suffer an even crueler fate?

She swallowed the knot in her throat and tore her gaze away.

"Very well," she said, her tone frosting over as she slipped back into her persona of captain of the guard—cold, matter-of-fact, familiar. She fixed her gaze on Fili, who looked about as conflicted as she felt. "What do we need to do?"

He worked his jaw for a minute, thinking. "You and I will spring Bard," he said, his lack of enthusiasm for the idea evidenced by his frown. "That'll be the easy part. Meanwhile, Bofur, take the boy and fetch the arrow. We'll rendezvous back here when we're done."

"No," Bain said, drawing everyone's attention. "I mean, coming back here would be a waste of time. The windlass is on top of the Master's hall, in the middle of town. Without it, the arrow's completely useless. It won't work on just any bow."

"The lad's right," said Bofur, tweaking one of the swoops of his mustache. "We're short enough on dragon-free time as it is."

Fili bit his lip, looking over at Kili. Tauriel knew exactly what he was thinking—he was afraid what would happen if they left him indefinitely.

Kili cleared his throat. "Fili . . ."

The fair-haired dwarf was at his brother's side in an instant. Tauriel took her hand from Kili's before anyone could notice. "What is it?"

"As much as I appreciate the solidarity . . . some things are more important."

"What solidarity?" Fili said. "I didn't say a word."

"Like that makes a difference."

A laugh hummed low in Fili's throat. Tauriel stared at her toes, feeling very much the intruder.

"Staying with me won't help anyone," Kili said. "Go with Tauriel. She's a crack shot, no mistake about it."

"So I've seen. Fine, I'll cut you a deal," his brother said. "Tell me how this sounds: next time an orc shoots you with a poison arrow, speak up."

Kili wheezed. "Sounds despicably reasonable. What's in it for me?"

"I don't know, maybe fewer near-death experiences? Less rescuing required?"

"I'll have to think about it," Kili said. He tried to smile at Tauriel, but it was more of a grimace, when it came to it. The poison would be a while yet before it faded altogether. "All this rescuing is growing on me."

Another roar shook the house, harder this time.

"We have to go," Bain said. "Before the dragon gets here. My da's the only one who can help—please."

Tilda began to cry at the same time as Kili began to cough. Sigrid held her sister close, while Fili watched his brother with visible distress.

"I will look after him." Óin padded over from the stove, clapping Fili on the back reassuringly. "He'll be well enough here. As well as any of us, that is."

"What a comfort."

"Willow bark," Tauriel said, ignoring Fili's sarcasm. "It will help with the pain."

"Aye, miss, I'm well acquainted with the stuff. Got a pot brewing now, never you fret."

Fili nodded. "Fine. Everyone know the plan? Bofur goes with Bain. Tauriel, you're with me, I suppose. The four of us will meet at the Master's house as soon as we can. Óin stays with Kili and the girls."

"We've got the plan," Bain said. "Let's go!"

"I don't know what you're on about. I've been waiting on you," Bofur told him with a shrug. They departed within seconds.

"Are you ready?" Fili asked Tauriel. Her hands went to her knives—both accounted for. Her bow lay discarded on the floor. She scooped it up and hurried to pull her arrows out of the dead orcs that still decorated the room. She had fewer bolts now than when she first left Mirkwood, but they would be enough.

"With any luck, you won't have to use any of those." Fili stood on the threshold, one foot out the door.

"I have learned not to throw my lot in with luck," Tauriel said, slinging her bow across her chest. "She is far too flighty for my taste."

"Mahal save me from the proverbs of Elves," Fili muttered. "This should be a joy. Let's go." He took to the stairs, his heavy boots thumping down the steps.

The elleth started after him, but Kili's ragged voice caught her in the doorway.

"Tauriel . . ."

"How could you say it was a dream?" she said, unable to meet his eyes. "It was real enough to me."

And then she was gone.


	9. The Dragon Descends

Fili had not gotten far when Tauriel caught up with him. He nearly shed his skin in alarm when she swooped down out of the shadows.

"Fire and forge," he swore, relaxing the instinctive grip on his sword hilt. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a dwarf?"

"No," came Tauriel's refined voice. "I have not known enough dwarves to learn such a lesson, if it is a true one. Besides, I cannot force myself to make such a din, as you do. Silence is a great virtue in the forest." She was running evenly with him now, though it was clear that she was holding back.

"What do you mean, you don't know how to make a din? Which I do _not_ make, by the way."

"Suit yourself, but quietness is in my nature. Listen. What do you hear?"

He couldn't hear even a scrap of sound from her movement, but he heard plenty of other things. A soup of human noises was brewing up ahead: shouting, weeping, drumming footfalls, a tumult of splashing. They rounded a sudden corner and discovered the source of the growing commotion. Lake-town was in a panic, and that panic was unfolding on the streets. People were streaming from their houses, carrying babies, dragging shrieking children, pulling on their coats. The water was louder than anything, though, as families loaded themselves and a few hastily-collected possessions into boats and shoved off onto the lake. Smaug roared again, eliciting a fresh wave of screams.

"It would seem that others share my ideas about evacuating," Tauriel said mildly.

Fili snuck a glance at her to see if she was as calm as she sounded. She looked determined, but not particularly ruffled. He couldn't quite get a read on her, which was half of what made her so frustrating. The other half was her connection to his brother, which made him wary. She seemed genuinely concerned both for him and for the welfare of their company—strange, for an Elf to take an interest in any affair other than their own. But at the moment it was hard to complain about her help. Or at least, hard to justify it.

"Evacuating?" Fili said. They had to slow down when they ran into the crowd, swimming in a human sea, a natural habitat for neither of them. "They might as well wrap themselves in wax and stick a wick on their heads."

"It is better than doing nothing. Maybe some of them will succeed." Tauriel somehow needed to touch no one to get through the crowd; she simply glided between the crush of bodies as though she were no more than a vapor.

Fili, on the other hand, was shouldering people aside left and right. Nobody seemed to notice him, which was a partial blessing—the downside was that everyone bumped into him. "Whatever it means for them, it's bad news for Bain and Bofur. Night fishing, my ass! Some clueless fisherman is going to paddle off with the black arrow."

"We must have faith that they will arrive in time," said Tauriel, but Fili thought her words sounded false. It was a cool platitude, nothing more. "Do you know which way to go? I have been following your lead."

"Now you ask." Fili dodged a big man with his daughter on his shoulders. "As a matter of fact, I do. The prison's across from the armory. I noticed it last night during the raid."

"An interesting choice. Do they not worry about what would happen if their prisoners escaped?"

"People have funny logic about these sorts of things," Fili said. "I might have asked the same thing about your folk keeping empty barrels so close to that river of yours. Practically an open invitation for an escape attempt."

Tauriel's eyes flashed. She opened her mouth to protest, but several people squashed between them, and they were separated. When they found each other again a moment later, she seemed to have quelled whatever smart retort she had prepared.

"Are we far?" she asked instead.

"No, we aren't far from anything. It's a small town. See that rooftop?" Tauriel followed Fili's finger to where it pointed at the highest tower of the Master's hall, taller than any other building in Esgaroth. "It's hard to tell at this hour, but that's where the windlass is. The armory and the jail are both on a street off the main square."

A shadow passed over the westering moon. A long gout of flame streaked across the sky, and everyone cowered, including Fili and Tauriel. But it had only been a warning shot, a signature scrawled in the sky. A reverse rain of arrows flooded upwards; the defenders of Lake-town would not abandon their home. The arrows struck Smaug's underbelly like hatpins on a steel breastplate. _Useless!_ Fili thought fiercely, though he couldn't blame them for trying. After the dragon had passed over, he looked down to see that Tauriel had her bow out too.

"There's no point," Fili said. "Only Bard's arrow will do any good."

Tauriel nodded, but she did not put away her weapon. She kept her arrow on the string. "Then we must hurry. He will come around."

With tacit agreement they took off running again. This time Fili showed no mercy in clearing a path for himself; he knocked people out of the way with no consideration for who they were or what they were carrying. And it worked—he still wasn't moving as fast as Tauriel, but he was moving, with one eye fixed on the dragon all the while. Smaug had flown across Lake-town and was ravaging the shoreline, turning timber to tinder and the grasslands to a wasteland of flame. _Taking his time with it_, Fili realized. _He's trying to build up the suspense. Let him! He's only giving us more time_.

His bravado wilted when they came to a screeching halt at the courtyard that abutted the Master's hall. It was crammed with people, even worse than the rest of the streets, and most of them were soldiers. They were looking to the skies, their bows awaiting their target, who was still scorching his way around the rim of the lake. The prison was on the far left of the courtyard, backed up to a waterway that led out of the town. A great many boats were already on that waterway, stacking up in a huge traffic jam.

"This could go one of two ways," said Tauriel from beside him. Her arrow pointed to the ground. "Either no one will notice when we free this Bard of yours, or everyone will."

"You can only come up with two? I can think of a third. Here it comes now."

A gusting wind swept through the courtyard, snapping the banners on the rooftops and slapping Tauriel's long curl of hair across Fili's face. He brushed it away in time to see Smaug soar overhead, a black sail ripped free of the mast. A new volley of arrows was sent up, pinging off the dragon's diamond-hard scales and inevitably showering back down on the men that fired them. Fili threw his arms over his head.

There came a sound like a great tearing, and then a wall of fire leapt up over the buildings to their right.

Neither of them needed further encouragement. They pushed on through the throng, steering gradually left as they aimed for the prison. The unlikely pair earned a few suspicious looks, but nothing more—most eyes were trained on the sky, anticipating the dragon's next pass.

Fili heard Smaug's wingbeats behind them and felt the thick press of heat against his back. Sweat moistened his collar. He realized, with a surge of irritation, that Tauriel had been right to suggest evacuation—perhaps it would do the people of Lake-town no good, but it had to be better than waiting to be cooked in their skins, like baked potatoes. He hoped that Oin and the girls had come to the same conclusion and would try, somehow, to flee. The separation from his brother was almost unbearable—he hated not knowing what was happening to Kili.

The main door to the prison had been deserted. Fili went in first, with Tauriel hard on his heels. Inside, the inmates clung to the the bars of their cells, beating against them and screaming to be let out.

"If you leave us here, we'll die!" a young man cried as Fili blew by him. The dwarf didn't slow down, but he heard Tauriel falter behind him, and turned to see that the Elf had paused and was staring at the man with pity and consternation sullying her elegant features.

"There's no time," Fili barked. "We have to keep moving."

He didn't wait for her to continue down the hall, scanning each cell for signs of Bard. His frustration mounted when he reached the end of the aisle and had witnessed no sign of the bargeman. A stairwell tucked behind the last cell reassured him; if they didn't find him, Fili didn't know what they would do. He took the steps two at a time, going too fast to sidestep the guard barreling down the stairs. They collided with a smack. Fili caught the banister to keep from falling, his head spinning from the impact.

"What are you two doing in here?" the guard said once he had recovered. "You aren't allowed in here. There's a dragon out—"

Fili punched him across the jaw. The guard didn't have a chance to block the blow, and the force of it tipped him forward. Fili glued himself to the wall as the man fell; Tauriel, too, leaped nimbly aside to make room for him to tumble down the stairs with a series of unpleasant crunches.

The dwarf climbed the last few steps to the second-story hallway. "Bard?" he shouted. "Bard, are you in here?"

"On the far right." Tauriel jogged past him, slipping her arrow back into her quiver.

"How do you—" _Right. Elf-ears_, Fili thought grudgingly. As he followed her, his lesser dwarf hearing caught the voice she was tracking. He spotted the grim-faced bargeman leaning against the bars of a cell on the right and rushed to him, giving the locked door a robust shake.

"Where are they keys?"

"The guard's got them—you should have passed him on the stairs," Bard said.

Wordlessly Tauriel sprinted away. Fili had to admit she was faster than him.

"Where are my children? Are they all right?" Despite his urgency, Bard looked bone-weary. Gray crescents sagged beneath his eyes, and a trickle of dried blood snaked from his nose.

"Last I saw—no more than half an hour ago." Fili glanced down the hall, bouncing on his heels. He found it hard to sit still even in normal situations. "The girls are in your house, or were, when we left. Your boy's gone to get the black arrow from where he hid it—don't worry, he's not alone. We're to meet out in the square once we rescue you."

"For which I am deeply grateful." Bard's gruff voice rang with sincerity. "But I have to warn you—there's only one shot, and I can't guarantee I'll make it."

"I've seen you shoot," Fili said. "I'd say you have a fighting chance. Better than I'd have, anyway."

He startled when Tauriel materialized at his elbow.

"Mahal!" he cried. "Warn me next time!"

Tauriel held up a ring of keys in response. "Which one?" There were about ten choices.

Fili snatched it from her. "We won't know until we try." His hands were steady as he tested each key. "It's going to be the last one, naturally." On the other side of the door Bard was champing at the bit. It was starting to get very warm in here, and through the small window at the end of the hallway they could see the reddish glow of the fire rampaging outside.

"What are you doing with an Elf?" Bard asked.

"It's a long story." _It also involves orcs attacking your house._ Some things were best left for later.

"The Elf can speak for herself," Tauriel said.

"Ha!" Fili cried. He'd been right—the last one did the trick. The door swung open and Bard charged out like a bull loose of its pen.

"What about us?" a prisoner called as the three of them strode down the hall.

"Here you go, and best of luck to you." Fili tossed him the keys, deaf to his whoop of triumph.

Smoke flooded Fili's mouth when they stepped out into the main square. The blaze was now bright as a dawning sun, with flames leaping in every direction. Miraculously, the Master's hall had survived unscathed, though Fili doubted it would boast a perfect record for long. He ducked his head when Smaug sliced through the air, spraying white-hot fire.

"Those fools are wasting their arrows," Bard said. The archers' ranks had thinned, but those who remained standing were still firing valiantly at the dragon.

"Let them waste them, if it gives them hope," said Fili. "Our hope lies up there."

They gazed up at the tallest tower perched on the roof of the hall; the windlass' spindly silhouette was visible against the inferno of the sky.

"It lies nowhere, without the black arrow." Bard's eyes combed the confusion of the courtyard, searching for his son. He turned suddenly to face the dwarf. "Listen," he said. "I thank you for your help, but you need make no more sacrifices for me. I should be able to reach the windlass once I have the arrow, trusting it doesn't go up in flames before then. You should get out of here. Take your brother, take your friends—" he favored Tauriel with a dubious look "—and go. Steal a boat. Steal _my _boat."

Staunch resolve glimmered darkly in his eyes, along with something even harder: resignation. Fili realized that the bargeman believed he was going to die. For a moment he was tempted to take his advice—leave him, run and find Kili and the others, and make one last desperate effort to escape. How could he come this close to Erebor only to perish on its doorstep? He shouldn't have been left here in the first place. No son of Durin should have to die like this.

Smaug swept over the square again, and for a moment Bard's skin glowed orange and gold. Fili shook himself. No one, neither dwarf nor man, prince nor bargeman, should have to die like this. He would sunder the honor of his heritage if he turned his back on Esgaroth. Nor could he live with himself if he could have done more and chose differently.

"No," he said at last. "No, I'm coming with you. Trying to convince me otherwise will only use up time."

"He speaks for both us," said Tauriel. "It is not your battle alone."

Bard nodded. "Good."

"Father!"

Bain came loping across the courtyard, the black arrow like a long spear in his hand. Soot smeared his cheeks, but he appeared unharmed.

"Where's Bofur?" Fili said. The boy was alone.

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Somehow we lost each other in the crowd, and I couldn't find him again—I'm sorry."

"Fili." The dwarf looked up at Tauriel, her expression grave. "It would be folly," she warned. "You cannot help him. It is as you told me—there is no time."

"I will make my own decisions," he said harshly.

"I suggest you make one," Bard said, taking the black arrow from his son. "If you're coming, then come. I, for one, must leave your friend to his own devices." He and Bain ran off in the direction of the hall. Tauriel threw Fili a look of concern before she followed them. Fili watched her go, her hair shining like a length of the fire that licked the buildings around them. Human screams filled his ears, the smell of burning wood and flesh stinging his nostrils, the pain of yet another cruel decision wrenching his gut.

Fili cursed and started after her. The infuriating Elf was right again—Bofur would have to take care of himself.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay . . . I've been having a lot of trouble uploading new content; I keep getting an error message. Thanks for your patience and your loyalty! :D You guys make me so happy.**

**Love, Quill**


	10. How To Sneak Up On Someone

Bain may have lost Bofur, but Bofur had not lost Bain. He watched the boy disappear into the crowd with the black arrow in his hand, unable to stop him and unable to follow—that is, at least until someone took this baby off his hands. A mother had pressed her child into his arms with no more than a tearful "Hold her for a second, won't you?" then had vanished back into her house. Bofur had never held a human baby before, much less one that was wailing, much less one that was wailing while Smaug the Impenetrable soared back and forth overhead, burning as he flew. Bofur looked about in an agony of decision, wondering who he could pawn the child off on, but everyone was moving too quickly, and nobody gave him a second glance.

"Pardon me—"

"Not to slight your kind, but I really don't want this bairn—"

"Would you mind taking the wee lass? Bit too fussy for me, think I'll pass—"

But no one paid him any mind. Everyone was too busy arranging their escape routes, preparing boats to shove off onto the Lake. Meanwhile the dragon wreaked havoc in the sky, spouting flame and setting the whole town ablaze. Bofur was seriously contemplating leaving the baby in a random boat when finally her mother descended on him and prized the babe from his arms.

"Oh, bless my beard," Bofur said, sweating with relief—or was that from the dragonfire? Probably both. "No offense, ma'am, but I don't have much of a kinship with the young ones, like."

"I'm so, so sorry. I pray good fortune on your house," the woman said. Now that Bofur was looking at her proper, he could see she wasn't much more than a girl yourself.

"Lucky for me, my house isn't here," he said. "It still has a small chance at good fortune. Great fortune, actually. Though not if this keeps up," he added to himself when a building a few streets over exploded in a blossom of fire.

"Do you need a way out?" the girl asked, struggling to hold her flailing daughter. "My husband's got the boat ready—there's room yet, if you want—"

Bofur followed her sightline. The boat looked mighty tempting, to be sure, with that cool, dark expanse of lake beyond it. Bain was long gone, and by the time he caught up with him, the whole town would probably be burned to a crisp. He wasn't so sure that following the boy was worth it. But he had other friends out there, friends who could use his help.

"I appreciate the offer, ma'am," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion around them. "But there are a few people who I just can't leave without. Luck to you and yours!" He tipped his hat to her and then took off in the other direction.

The boat where Bain had hid the black arrow had only been a few blocks from Bard's house, so it shouldn't have taken Bofur long to get back. But the crowds were dense and panicked, and some of the streets had been made newly impassable by Smaug's frenzy. Bofur had to hurdle more than one fiery obstacle, stopping once to pat out a few sparks that danced onto his sleeve. Nevertheless, he made it back to Bard's house without combusting.

The same, unfortunately, could not be said for the house in question. Fire consumed the whole lane, igniting one building after another, spreading like a contagion. Bofur buried his face in the crook of his elbow, trying to breathe anything but the smoke, but the air was thick with it, choking him with clammy hands. He watched in horror as Bard's house succumbed to the flame, crumpling inward on itself and surely crushing anyone who might have been trapped inside.

"No!" Tears stung his eyes; he couldn't tell if they were from sorrow or from the smoke. Why hadn't they listened to the Elf lass? She had told them to evacuate. She had known what to do. They had ignored her, because of who she was, and because they'd been too focused on Bard and the arrow—but what good was slaying the dragon when everyone you cared about was already dead?

Bofur began to cough. He should get out now, if he wanted to live. He couldn't follow Fili and Tauriel at this late date, they were too far, and with the others—well, with what had probably happened to the others, he was alone. He started to double back, wondering if he could find another nice family who would let him on their boat—then, once this was all over, if Bard succeeded in killing Smaug, he could go find the others at Erebor. It would be a heavy reunion, but at least he would not be alone.

He was running along the wharf, back toward the clearer section of town, when he heard something. He dug his fingers in his ears and scrubbed them out, thinking that the ubiquitous soot was playing tricks on his hearing. But no, there it was again—his name, floating to him through the haze, coming from his left.

Bofur turned and spotted the culprit straight away. A few feet off the edge of the wharf, a boat bobbed on the water. The people in it were all waving their arms at him. Squinting, Bofur counted four shapes, with one lying at the stern.

"Óin!" Bofur called, his heart so swollen with relief he thought his chest might cleave in two. "Óin, you beautiful dwarf, is that you?"

The answer came in the form of a young girl's voice. "He can't hear you!" Sigrid shouted from across the water. "But yes, it's him! It's all of us! We're coming back to get you!"

"Thank all that is good and precious in the earth." Bofur was crying in earnest now. He wouldn't be missing the boat a second time.

* * *

Compared to the nightmare unfolding outside, the Master's hall was quiet and calm. To Tauriel it had an air of neglect—not that it was untidy, but that it felt as though no one had truly lived in it for a long time. The dark, wood-paneled rooms were decorated with finely upholstered furniture that looked like no one ever sat in it, bookcases stocked with books that had probably never been read, portraits of men and women with stern faces and downtrodden spirits. It was the home of someone isolated by his own choices, and it stank of bitter loneliness and empty power. Not to mention wine. Tauriel could recognize the scent of a Mirkwood vintage from a hundred paces.

She climbed the main stairwell with Bard and his son, the humans' footsteps plush on the thick carpet underneath. Getting into the hall had been a matter of simply opening the door; the guards at the front entrance had abandoned their posts and the interior was all but deserted. Tauriel heard a muffled crash from the base of the stairs and she fingered an arrow, but it was only Fili. The dwarf had careened into a standing candelabra and knocked it flat. The candles rolling across the carpet were unlit, not that it mattered.

"Quickly!" Tauriel hissed at him. He lanced her with a glare. He came abreast of the three of them on the second floor up. His straw-colored hair was rimed with ash, making him look a bit like his brother.

"Is that your way of warning me?" Tauriel said.

Fili brushed soot from his sleeves. "That was a demonstration of how not to sneak up on someone."

"Rest assured that it was highly successful."

"Good." Fili sidelined his desire to pick a bigger fight with the elleth and did a sweep of their surroundings instead. "Looks like the Master high-tailed it out of here."

"He's a coward," Bain said passionately. Smaug's roar rattled the windowpanes and swung the lanterns that dangled from the walls. "He wouldn't defend this city even in peacetime—why would he start now?"

"Indeed he has gone to great lengths to avoid it," said Bard without heat. "But he can do no more to hinder us now. Only the dragon can do that."

The staircase opened into a long hallway that branched off into many different rooms on either side. Bard led the quartet to the opposite end, where a small door hid in an alcove, its frame not tall enough for even Fili to pass through at his full height. Tauriel bent double to squeeze into the cramped space beyond, which was utterly lightless and reeked of must. The darkness was not so difficult for the Elf, whose keen vision adjusted rapidly to discern the contour of a tightly spiraled staircase that wound still further up. She disliked such close quarters, where she could not even stretch out her arms or straighten her knees properly. The tips of her bow scraped against the walls as she followed hard on Bain's heels, Fili tromping in his usual way as he brought up the rear. His broad physique was even more poorly suited to this leg of their journey.

Sweltering heat blasted them when Bard forced the door open at the top of the stairs. They emerged onto a narrow walkway balanced on the ridge of the roof, no wider than a foot across and unprotected by railings of any kind. Bard took it at a run, keeping the black arrow clamped tightly under his arm. Bain pursued him more cautiously, with copious glances at the ground, which he clearly found too distant for comfort. The paltry height did not faze Tauriel, but she observed the world around them with a stab of concern. Lake-town had transformed into a city of fire. Every roof forked tongues of flame into the amber-tinted sky, smoke forming an unnatural aurora overhead. The blaze had finally taken to the lower levels of the Master's hall, and was consuming the building at an alarming rate.

"Are you all right to cross?" Tauriel said to Fili. She did not believe the ridge was wide enough for both of his feet to fit side by side.

"I'd better be!" he shouted over the voice of the fire. "Go!"

She obeyed, flying across the rooftop. She realized now what her decision to come with Bard meant for her. It was unlikely that she would ever return to Mirkwood or call herself the captain of its guard again. _You did not have to come_, Tauriel reminded herself. She could have ridden after the orcs with Legolas, or fled when they first heard the dragon, or even after they'd rescued Bard. But she had the unmistakable sense that she was supposed to aid him. If something happened to him, she might be Lake-town's best hope, albeit its little and its last.

Tauriel squinted at the platform that crowned the Master's hall. The parapet funneled into yet another short flight of stairs that climbed the tower like a ladder. Bard had already made the stairs and was pulling himself up to the dais, where the windlass cut a strange shape, like a bow and catapult merged into one. With a start Tauriel realized that its shadow was not the only one to occupy the tower. Another silhouette hunkered beside it, still and surreptitious. It only took Tauriel a heartbeat to recognize it as a man.

"Bard, look out!" Fili shouted from behind her—he had seen it too.

His warning came too late. As soon as Bard hoisted his body over the edge of the platform, the man sprang at him and struck him across the face.


	11. Balancing Act

Her arrow had left the string before Bard even hit the ground. The shaft sprouted from the attacker's shoulder. The man let out a strangled cry and stumbled back. Bard dropped to his chest, the black arrow rolling dangerously close to the edge of the tower.

"Father!" Bain screamed, launching himself at the ladder. Tauriel nocked another arrow, but the boy had already clambered onto the platform, blocking her shot at the ambusher. By the time Bain knelt beside his father, the man had recovered from the blow Tauriel had dealt him and lunged for the boy.

"Rhaich," Tauriel swore. She could not risk the shot. But it seemed she had underestimated Bain. He snatched the black arrow from where it had fallen and lifted it in defense. They battled as Tauriel closed the gap between herself and the tower, trading her bow for her knives in preparation for close combat. She could not imagine who would be fool enough to attack them even as they sought to save Lake-town and all the people in it. The fire that crept up the sides of the hall only served to fuel her anger and drive her ever faster towards the fight.

Bain and his opponent were struggling, both grasping the black arrow as they tried to push the other down. Tauriel ducked as Smaug swooped over the building, his wingtip grazing the peak of the tower. His body, which passed only ten feet above her head, emanated heat like a gigantic coal lit by some unearthly flame.

Two deft jumps levered Tauriel onto the platform; she did not even need to use her hands, which was lucky, as they were occupied by her knives. Her feet straddled Bard's crumpled body when she landed, just behind Bain. She could see the assailant clearly now; a mortal man with dark hair, a drooping moustache and eyebrows that joined over his nose. He wore heavy black robes and a rather square hat, hanging askew on his head. He did not have the bearing of a warrior, nor did he appear to have a weapon. His face was screwed up and red from the exertion of fighting a young boy. Tauriel did not recognize him, but she did not need to recognize someone to kill them.

When he glimpsed her over Bain's shoulder, a shudder of fear passed over the man's brow. With a yell he shoved at Bain with all his might, knocking the boy off balance. Tauriel jumped aside as Bain fell, landing on his back across his father's body. The black arrow slipped from his grasp, flying towards the railing. Tauriel dove for it, trying to pluck it out of midair, but she moved too late. The Elf watched in horror as it glanced off the railing and soared over the side, plummeting down towards the roof underneath.

"No!"

The cry came from Fili's throat as well as her own. She turned to see the dwarf throw himself from the walkway.

"Fili!"

He skidded down the side of the roof on his back. For an awful moment she thought he would simply sail off the edge and into the blaze—at the last second he caught himself on the outcrop of a dormer window jutting from the side of the roof. He clung to it, lying flat against the slanted roof, while the black arrow caught in the gutter a few feet below. Fili tried to trap it between his feet, but it was just out of reach, and if he let go of his handhold there was no guarantee he would make it back up. There was already no guarantee.

Tauriel jumped down from the tower and lay across the walkway on her belly, scooting as far over the ridge as she could go without losing her balance. She stretched out her arm, holding her bow out to Fili.

"Here," she said. "Use this to get the arrow!"

He took it with his free hand. The arm that he had hooked over the ridge of the dormer window was shaking—she did not know how much longer he could hang like that. Her concern was well-placed: when he reached down to snag the fallen black arrow with her bow his grip failed him. The dwarf went sliding down the rest of the roof. He jammed his heels into the gutter and grabbed the shingles of the roof to keep himself from toppling.

"I've got the arrow!" he yelled.

"You fool!" she said, scarcely believing he had not gone over the edge. She was sick with relief and fury. "What does it matter, if you cannot get back up?"

"We'll get him back up."

Tauriel quirked her neck. Bard was next to her, copying her pose; he got down on his stomach with his legs draped down the side of the roof. His nose was obviously broken.

"I'll hold your feet," he said, "and lower you down till you can reach him. I won't let go of you, I swear it."

"Do it." Tauriel pulled herself forward gradually, bracing herself against the roof so she would not go shooting down it as Fili had. Once she felt Bard's fingers tight around her ankles, she let herself go completely, and found herself stretched flat against the slope. Even with her arms extended at their full length, she could not make it to Fili. She could see the fire encroaching higher and higher on the building, her whole body suffused with sweat. They did not have long.

"The arrow," she called to him.

Fili cottoned onto her idea at once. He raised the wicked-looking weapon, closing the gap between them. It was long enough that she could easily grasp the body of it, but her slick hands slipped on the metal. With a curse, Tauriel gritted her teeth and wrapped her fingers around it in a contortion that would keep it from slithering out of her fists. Once she had a good—or at least sufficient—grip on it, she nodded to Bard.

"Pull us up!" She refused to doubt the man's ability to do so: he _had_ to pull them up, pure and simple.

The black arrow cut into her skin as Bard heaved. Tauriel felt a new set of hands on her calves and realized that Bain was helping, too. The men groaned as they dragged the Elf and the dwarf upward. Tauriel's shins scraped against the ridge of the roof, her shoulders threatening to pop out of their sockets from the burden of Fili's weight at the other end of the arrow.

Then Bard's hands were on the black arrow, and together all three of them reeled Fili onto the walkway. The dwarf lay on his back, coughing, as Bard relieved him of the arrow and sprinted towards the windlass, with Bain his faithful follower. Tauriel scanned the premises for the attacker, but the dark-clad man was nowhere to be seen. She remembered the fear in his eyes when he saw her. _He was not expecting me_. The thought made her smug in spite of herself.

Fili pushed himself up.

"Mahal," he gasped. His voice was raw. "I thought I was going to die. I've never been so sure about anything."

"You may yet," Tauriel said. She waved at the inferno around them. The dragon made another pass, as if subconsciously punctuating her statement. "Especially if you continue to lie about! Give me my bow, at least, if you are going to stay here."

She was pleased to see he had recovered enough to give her a withering look. He slapped the bow into her palm.

"Hannon le." Tauriel was fully aware the dwarf would have no idea that it was merely a thank-you. She got to her feet, her legs complaining after the thorough stretch they just experienced, and headed for the tower. This time the only people waiting for her there were Bard and Bain. The one-man ambush had well and truly fled, though to what end, Tauriel could not say. "Who was that man?" she asked. "Is there need for me to pursue him?"

"No." Bard was busy slotting the black arrow into the windlass. Tauriel eyed the contraption with wary skepticism. "He's one of the Master's stooges—following a set of imbecilic orders, no doubt. He's a misguided buffoon, but he's not evil."

"That misguided buffoon nearly killed us," Fili said, joining them on the platform. "I'm personally in favor of Tauriel taking him out."

"If I see him again, I will do so without hesitation," Tauriel said.

"Be my guest," said Bard, "though I think the fire will probably do the job for you." He cranked the windlass, pulling the wires taut and drawing the black arrow back. There was a cold, matter-of-fact click when the arrow settled into position. Tauriel's eyes swept the burning skies, and placed Smaug at the far end of town, joyously blasting the bridge that led to the mainland.

"How will you slay him with one shot?" Tauriel asked.

"The stories say that Girion loosened a scale on Smaug's left breast, and left a vulnerable hollow there. If it's true, that is where I will aim my shot."

"Stories?" she said in disbelief. "You have one chance and you trust it to common legend?"

"Legend is born of truth," Bard said, unperturbed by her reaction. "Besides, I have little else to trust." He took his place behind the windlass, grasping the handles of the mechanism. Tauriel studied his proud profile, his gaze dark with intention as it focused on the ruinous drake. He turned to Fili suddenly. "Except for you. I do not know you well, dwarf, and you, lady Elf, I know not at all, but I need your help." His eyes flicked back to Smaug, who had risen into the air and was wheeling towards town. "I need you to leave me." He held up a hand to stem the flow of objections. "You've already helped me far more than I could have hoped. But you gain nothing by staying now. I am here, the windlass is set—all I am missing is the dragon. And he will not be long in coming."

"I'm not leaving you," Bain said vehemently.

Bard ignored him and looked straight at Fili instead. "I need you to take my son with you." He raised his voice a few notches when Bain sputtered in protest. "Drag him, if you must. Whatever you do—keep him safe, or as safe as you can." At last he turned to his son, whose face was streaked with sooty tears.

"Father, I can't," he stammered. "I couldn't even think it—"

Bard took Bain's head in his hands, leaning down so their noses were only inches apart. Bain fell silent immediately, arrested by the intensity of his father's stare. Tauriel and Fili averted their eyes, an easy enough task—there was plenty to worry about elsewhere. The fire was gnawing at the gutter of the roof where Fili had stood only half a dozen moments before. Tauriel wiped her brow with her sleeve, though it was little more than a conceit. The burgeoning heat only wetted it again. The Elf had already begun to calculate their escape route, which would be a thorny one. They could hardly return the way they had come, as the lower levels of the house had already been consumed and the interior would be impenetrable. They would have to be more creative than that.

"You must do this for me, Bain," Bard said. "You have already proven your bravery twenty times over this night. You must do so again by leaving me."

"How's it brave to run?"

"Your sisters need you. Sigrid and Tilda will be watching for you. If I don't—if something goes wrong, I'll need you to look after them. Can you do that? Bain, promise me. Will you do that?"

Bain scrubbed at his tears. "I will, Father. I promise."

"Good." Bard folded his son against his breast. "I love you, Bain. Remember that. And your sisters, too—tell them."

"Tell them yourself." Bain balked defiantly. "Please try—" His voice cracked.

"I'll try. Now go—hurry!" Bard pushed the boy towards Tauriel, glancing across town. Smaug was advancing quickly. "There's a balcony on the other side of the hall." He gestured to the other side of the tower, where the walkway continued on to the end of the roof. "It may yet be of use to you. Go!"

Fili moved first. He seized Bain by the elbow and towed him over to the edge of the platform.

"Tauriel," he said. "You're the cleverest. You should lead."

The elleth locked eyes with Bard. The grim-faced man nodded.

"Go," he said again, wearily. "Go, and do not think of me."

Tauriel laid her palm across her chest, a mark of respect. She bowed her head in farewell. Then she strode to the edge of the tower, pinwheeling her legs over the railing and touching down on the walkway below. She looked back to make sure Bain and Fili were following and then began to run. Unlike at the other end, there was no door or stairwell that led down into the hall on this side. When she reached the end of the walkway, she peered over the edge of the roof. There was the balcony that Bard had mentioned, perhaps a floor below, and to her amazement, a slender stairwell threaded out from it, like a line of teeth along the wall. Fire worked at the steps in patches, but she thought they could make it through, if they did not delay.

"Make haste!" she called to the boy and the dwarf, but her command was redundant—they were only a breath away. "We have a long drop ahead of us, but we must hurry, or there will be nothing left to drop to. Follow me!"

She jumped without faltering. For her the distance was merely a trifle; she made much farther leaps at home. She was more concerned for the other two, who had neither her innate skill nor her centuries of experience. As soon as she landed she looked up—Bain was waffling, only his face visible overhead.

"Jump!" she cried, the word misshapen in her constricted throat. The flames were wolfing down the far railing, and Tauriel could hardly breathe for the smoke that encircled her.

Bain jumped, or Fili pushed him—it did not matter which. He nearly crumpled from the force of the impact, but Tauriel dragged him up again, pulling him out of the way when Fili hurtled after him. He crash-landed rather spectacularly but bounced back onto his feet with the speedy vigor that Tauriel had come to expect from dwarves. They were made of something durable, she had to give them that.

"Cover your mouths," Tauriel said. "Whatever you do, do not stop, and do not lose me!"

Shielding her face with her sleeve, Tauriel started down the stairs. The wood sagged with every step she took, threatening to buckle. She moved as quickly as she dared, taking a head-on approach to the fire that leapt up around her. She slapped out the flames kindling in her tunic, but she had not been born with enough hands to extinguish every spark.

She hit the ground running and spared a glance over her shoulder at Bain and Fili. The pair raced after her, beating their clothes frantically. Knowing there was nothing more she could do for them now, Tauriel gave herself to her flight. Her legs worked desperately beneath her; her lungs and throat screamed as she tried and failed to draw breath. She was suffocating, to say nothing of burning—she could feel the peppery kiss of flames as they grew like new buds all over her body. She was running through a nightmare, a forest of fire, where leaves were sparks, and they fell in a perpetual autumn. The world seemed to close in around her, bright and hot and hideous, and in what she was certain would be her final moments Tauriel's thoughts fled to her home, the cool shade of Mirkwood that she had left behind for this feverish ending. She thought of Legolas, and how he would feel when he learned of her death, but even with that in mind she could not regret what she had done—not when she remembered the people she had saved. Not when she remembered Kili, and what he had said to her not even hours ago.

_I do not know if I could have loved you_, Tauriel thought. She imagined he could hear her, wherever he was, if he was even still alive. _I do not know. I wish that I could have discovered the answer for myself._

Her limbs felt heavy. Her strides were growing more sluggish, and her mind was clouded, her skin was sizzling—

She was halfway into delirium when she saw a chasm open up before her, a great rift in a burning land. It was long and black and moved strangely in the light. It took Tauriel a moment to realize that it was water, one of Lake-town's many canals. She could not even process her relief. All she could do was run, run towards it and pray for sanctuary from dragonfire.

* * *

**As requested, a longer chapter :) Don't worry, there will be a Kiliel reunion very soon. Thank you all for sticking with me, whether you've been reviewing or reading silently-either way, I appreciate your support of my humble little ficcie.**

**Love always, Quill**


	12. Fall of the Firebreather

Kili watched Lake-town burn.

He wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a fever dream. The smoke rolling across the water threatened to invade his very mind, muddling his thoughts and shortening his breath even as the Morgul poison drained gradually away. The sight was a surreal one: an island of flame that seemed to rise up from the black water, ruled by Smaug, its cruel tyrant. The three dwarves and two girls watched the town's slow death in agony. They all had people that they cared about who might not have made it out. Even though his mind was clouded Kili knew that something was missing, and that something was Fili. He felt the lack of his brother like an ache even worse than the wound still throbbing in his knee.

He could only vaguely recall the events of the evening. They seemed like a dim memory, one that he might have invented. He remembered the orcs attacking them in Bard's home, and he remembered trying to defend himself. After that, it was a haze of pain and panic. When he sought after that portion of his memory, he could only come up with darkness. Not the comforting sort of darkness that came with sleep, but a void so empty that he had lost even himself. And then—and then!

Tauriel, he could remember. She had come to him like a hymn, a lush harmony of many voices from a height. And with her she had brought a distant light, not cold, but gentle and all-knowing, filling the void and finding him where he would never have thought to be found. He had come back then, back from that great darkness, and she had been there, waiting. He could not quite remember what he had said to her, though he remembered the sound of his own voice. Fili had been there, too, and the others. Then they had heard the dragon, and everything had happened at once. Kili had told Fili to go with Tauriel to rescue Bard, so that he could slay Smaug, and that all the wrongs the dragon had committed could be undone.

But they could not be undone. Nothing could ever be undone—Kili knew that was not how the world worked. He could feel that harsh reality in his wound, in the poison that still idled in his blood. He was alive, and he was himself, but he would never be the same; that much he could tell. It was not something he wanted to think about. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the murky state of his mind made it easy not to dwell on such things. Instead he was forced to watch as Smaug devastated Lake-town, and imagine Fili and Tauriel in that wooden maze, trapped in a huge matchbox with no clear escape.

They were floating several hundred feet away from town. Dozens of boats bobbed around them, other refugees who had taken to the water in hopes that they could outrun the dragon. Most people were paddling away towards the opposite end of the lake, but others were like them, and stayed closer to the town, drifting in a torturous limbo as they watched their home and possibly the people that they loved go up in flames.

Kili was lying at the stern of the boat. Once Fili, Tauriel, Bofur, and Bain had left Bard's house, the others had realized very quickly that staying would be folly. Sigrid and Tilda had been reluctant to go at first, knowing as they did that their father and brother were still out there. Once Smaug had begun his attack in earnest, they volunteered their family's boat, moored in the canal underneath the house, as their escape route. Kili had not wanted to leave anyone behind either, but he was far too weak to affect any change. He had let Óin and the girls half-carry him down the stairs and help him into the boat, even as he protested that he could not leave without Fili. They never let anything separate them, and to be so far away from him and not know whether he was alive or dead was pure misery, worse even than the insidious poison stinging his veins.

_He's alive. He has to be. I would know if he wasn't._ Kili reassured himself with that thought.

At least they had spotted Bofur before they had made it too far. He was easily recognizable by the shape of his hat, silhouetted against the fiery backdrop. After getting close enough for him to jump into the boat, they had rowed away again, putting the town and the dragon behind them, until they were far enough that they could breathe freely. Even from this distance, though, they could smell the smoke, its pungent musk suffusing their clothes and their skin. Kili felt as though Lake-town had been burning for hours, though that had to be the fever talking. Above them the clouds were slowly beginning to dissipate, unveiling the sinking moon.

Bofur said what they were all thinking. "Shouldn't they have killed the dragon by now?"

Óin shifted uncomfortably on his seat, swaying the boat. Smaug was making laps over Lake-town, liquid fire pouring from his jaws.

_ There's nothing left to burn_, Kili thought wearily. _Why doesn't he just stop?_

But it was obvious that the dragon was glorying in the destruction, even as it became redundant. He tightened his circles, drawing in closer and closer to the center of town.

"Is Father dead?" Tilda asked quietly.

Her sister grabbed her by the arm. "Don't say that," she said. "He and Bain could have escaped. They could be in any of these boats. They could be in the water."

But she knew the truth of it, as they all did. Little as he had interacted with him, Kili had seen that Bard was a man of conviction and of loyalty; he would not have abandoned Lake-town without trying to save it.

"I'm sure m'lad Fili got your father out," Bofur said. His tone was uncertain, like he wasn't sure where he was going with this. "He and that Elf lass probably make a deadly combination. Deadly in more ways than one."

Kili's short laugh turned into a long cough. The smoke was rough in his throat. Óin turned to him, his kind face wrinkled with concern. He held out the waterskin he'd filled with willow bark tea. Kili took it and drank; the tea was cold now and didn't taste like much, but it soothed his throat and cleared his head. It was impossible to tell if his fever was coming down, what with all this fire around.

"It's a hard night," Óin said, "but it'll be a good morning."

"If morning comes." Kili passed the skin back to the apothecary, who said nothing. _Probably because he can't deny what he knows is true—this isn't looking good._

Smaug reared back and craned his neck, striping the sky with fire as if he thought he might set the clouds alight. His triumphant roar sent a ripple through the Long Lake, and the boat rocked like a cradle.

_Where are you, Fili?_

Could he be in one of the other boats or swimming in the lake, like Sigrid had suggested? He couldn't stand the alternative. And what of Tauriel? He was mystified by her presence here. She had followed them all the way from Mirkwood. That couldn't have been an easy decision to make, and yet she had made it, risking the derision of her own kind—probably more than that. Kili's heartbeat took up a syncopated rhythm at the thought of seeing her again. He struggled to remember the last thing she had said to him. _It was real enough to me._ What was real enough? He wished he knew.

A terrible scream tore the night in half. Kili clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the unholy sound. It had come from Smaug; the dragon pulled out of a sharp dive and shot straight upward, beating his wings and spouting flames almost blindly, with no focus or target. His scream rang out long and loud, deafening Kili even through the shields of his hands, and from all around the lake he heard a great splintering groan and a noise like a stone cleaving in two. He looked and saw the trees around the shoreline felling of their own accord, and from the far range of mountains rocks came tumbling in avalanches shaken loose by the voice of the dragon as his keening howl unleashed one last surge of havoc.

And then Smaug the Impenetrable fell from the sky. Kili saw, even from the stern of a small boat on the Long Lake, the black arrow deep in the hollow of his breast.

His wings spread as he plummeted, unfurling to their mightiest span. He sent up one last stream of fire, a flag at half-mast, and then crashed into the buildings below.

He was at least half the size of Esgaroth. His weight was the last straw for the weary town, which buckled beneath his weight and folded in on itself. It crumpled and sank with an extraordinary hiss, and the lake spilled over the wreckage, the water rushing eagerly in to put an end to the awful fire. It swallowed up the buildings and snuffed the flames, flooded the streets and rose up around the lifeless body of the dragon, covering his spearlike claws and rinsing the sparks from his throat. Plumes of steam billowed up as the lake smothered the last of the dragonfire. They shone like pearly columns in the reluctant moonlight. Even with their faint illumination, the world seemed utterly dark. For a passing moment Kili felt as though he had plunged into the void again. Then he took his hands from his ears and the reality of the world came rushing back in.

It was much louder than he expected. Though the dragon was silenced and the noisy hunger of the fire had ceased, plenty of other sounds took their place. He could hear the clamor of the people in the other boats, crying and calling out and arguing all at once. Their vessels splashed on the surface of the lake. On the shore, the fallen trees were scraping against each other, settling, and somewhere in the distance, the echo of a rockslide lingered. The seething of the steam was like a constant inhale drawn in through the water's teeth.

None of them spoke. The confusion in the boat was palpable. The dragon was dead—it was their hope fulfilled. And yet no one cheered, no one was celebrating. Kili's head spun and he slumped back against the stern. It seemed impossible that anyone who had still been in town could have survived the crash and flood. In Kili's mind, such a verdict would doom Bard, at the very least, unless he had finagled a miraculous escape. But the others—if they had not been there, if they had gotten out, they could still be alive.

"We have to go back," Kili said suddenly. His voice sounded the strongest it had all evening. Everyone turned and stared at him. "Why are you looking at me like that? If there's a chance any of them are still alive, we have to go back. We have to find them."

"He's right," Sigrid said. Her face was pale under the clearing sky. "Father and Bain are out there. And so are your friends." She seized the oar nearest to her and gripped it with steady hands. "Bofur?"

The dwarf realized belatedly what she meant and scrambled for the other oar. "At your service, lovely lady."

They made an efficient team, dipping and pulling the oars in perfect rhythm. Kili admired their calm strokes; if he was rowing, he would have made a shoddy job of it in his impatience. They weren't the only boat heading back towards the town. Others had the same idea they did, and were calling names and searching in the darkness for the ones they had lost. Kili's eyes combed the water, though he held his tongue. He didn't think he could bear to call Fili's name and hear no response. Instead he pushed himself up as best he could and searched for his brother, and for a certain copper-haired Elf.

* * *

Tauriel could see the stars.

She was floating on her back in the cool water. She had not believed she would survive. The canal had been her saving grace; she had managed to hold out until the smoke had scattered and the air was clean enough to breathe once more. She had already been swimming west when the concussion from Smaug's landing had washed her further away. When the lake had swept in to drown the town, she had to fight to avoid being sucked under. It had taken all her energy and willpower to overcome the tide and break through to the surface. Only once the wave had settled did she allow herself to entertain the possibility that she might not die here. Death was a nebulous concept to an Elf; even though she had faced spiders and other trespassers hundreds, if not thousands of times, it had never felt as real to her as it had tonight. Knowing she had eluded it made her oddly giddy. Overhead the clouds were shredding, revealing a familiar pattern of stars.

_They have always been there_, Tauriel thought, flutter-kicking to send herself sailing a few feet. _Unfailing and untouchable. _Their distance and their impartiality comforted her; it was good to know that there would always be some force in Arda that remained neutral and uncluttered by petty dealings. The stars were allowed to be dispassionate—the rest of the world could not afford such apathy.

With that thought Tauriel angled herself upright, treading water. She could not allow her own successful escape to overshadow the possibility that others might need her help. She had lost track of both Fili and Bain when she leapt into the canal. She wondered if she should regret her choice to press onward without keeping tabs on them, then dismissed the notion—she could help no one if she had suffocated. Still she harbored a fierce hope that they had made it.

She was surprised to see that she was quite some distance from the wreckage of Esgaroth. The columns of steam made it look as though the dragon was smoking, and perhaps he was. Smaug's inner fire had been quenched and was trailing up into the night.

_Bard did it. The black arrow found its mark._ Tauriel felt a swell of admiration for the mortal. Truly he must have been a venerable archer if he had made that shot. Her pride and sense of victory, however, were colored with regret. Smaug had landed directly in the center of the town, crushing the Master's hall where the windlass had been. Unless he had gotten away in the time it had taken for the dragon to fall, she could not see how the bargeman might have survived. She would have to focus her efforts on finding Fili and Bain, who had been hard on her heels only a moment before she jumped into the canal.

An initial sweep of the vicinity yielded no signs of dwarf or boy. Tauriel had begun to swim back towards town when something bumped her shoulder. She moved out of the path of a small fishing boat cutting across the water.

"Sorry!" A young girl clutched the prow while two adults, presumably her parents, controlled the oars. "Didn't see you there! Are you all right? Do you want to get in?"

"That is most generous of you," Tauriel said, "but I am looking for my friends, and I would not want to interfere with your own mission."

"Tauriel!"

The Elf turned. The call was coming from the west, a good distance away. In the darkness Tauriel could see a veritable fleet of boats drifting towards her—more search parties seeking survivors in the ruins, no doubt.

"This way, lass!"

She let the voice guide her eyes until they landed on a figure standing in one of the boats, some thirty feet away, flapping an outlandishly-shaped hat.

"Bofur!"

Tauriel began to swim towards the boat. So the dwarf had escaped on his own! That would be a relief to Fili, if they ever saw him again.

"Oho! Sure and I've found you!" Bofur said, dropping back down behind the oar. "Your eyesight may be envy to all, lady Elf, but mine's more than fair. Budge up, now, make a little room, girls."

She only understood everything he said when the vessel drew nigh and she could see over the side of it. Bard's daughters Sigrid and Tilda sat at the front of the boat. Each of them took one of Tauriel's arms and pulled her in; she could have done it herself, but she let them help, knowing what it was like to need to do something. She perched on the front bench next to Tilda, a deluge of lakewater pouring from her clothes. As she recovered her bearings she took stock of everyone in the boat. The human girls, Bofur, Óin, and behind him—

Had Tauriel had a heart before? If she had, it must have been a very different creature. She could not remember it being so big, or so noisy. It thudded against her ribs so indignantly she wondered if she should let it out. Certainly it did not seem as though she could contain it.

Kili struggled to sit up. His dark eyes cleared when he saw her, fever and fatigue passing away like the clouds moving over the moon. She could no longer see the shroud of poison hanging over him; it was wholly banished. It was true that he looked spent, battered by the many ordeals he had faced in such a short time, but Tauriel recognized his earnest Kili-spark, the unguarded sincerity she remembered from their exchange in the Elvenking's halls.

"Are you well?"

Tauriel heard her voice as though it came from outside her body. The question went out to all of them, but it was meant for Kili.

"Bit singed, I should think," Bofur answered, contentedly oblivious. "Nothing I can't handle, of course."

"We were worried for you," the elleth said. She did not take her eyes from Kili's. "Bain said he had lost you."

"Aye, I ran into a spot of young trouble," Bofur said. "Thought it best not to try and follow you after that, so I doubled back and found this lot. Say, where are the lads? Fili and the like?"

Finally Tauriel looked at Bofur. "We left Bard at the windlass." A sharp gasp came from the little girl beside her. "Fili and Bain were right behind me—I think they would not be far, if they are alive."

"Then we have to keep looking," Sigrid said. Her eyes glistened with tears. Her younger sister was weeping quietly to herself. Tauriel frowned; she wanted to comfort the girl, but she did not know how.

Suddenly Tilda hiccuped and pointed. "There!" she cried. "It's Bain! Oh, Bain! Over here!" She jumped to her feet and began to wave her arms over her head. Instinctively Tauriel pulled her back down, afraid she might fall out.

Bain swam toward them. In half a moment he was at the prow, and Tauriel dragged him in the boat. Once he was safely in, she climbed toward the stern, giving the siblings some room for their reunion. She took the empty space next to Óin, who patted her arm.

"All right there, lass?" he said.

She nodded and turned to Kili—a slight movement, a casual one. "And you?"

"Just a scratch." The beardless dwarf grinned, and the air around them shifted, getting more comfortable. "I'll be right as rain in a few days."

Her smile mirrored his. "I never understood that expression of yours. How can a weather pattern be right? Is there something inherently correct about rain?"

"Rain knows its business. It doesn't put on any airs. It just comes down, nice and straight."

"Except in a wind."

"Then that's the wind's fault, isn't it?" Kili coughed, which she took to mean he was laughing. "Doesn't make the rain wrong."

"By that token, you may as well say 'right as grass' or 'right as a river.'"

"Oh, I would never say that about a river. I've learned my lesson about those."

"Good," Tauriel said. "They do not seem to agree with you." She raised a sly brow, and he coughed again, harder this time.

"Now, what've you said to get him started?" said Óin, turning as though he had just noticed they were having a conversation. "I can't let you sit back here if you're going to rile up the invalid."

Kili held up a hand. "It's my fault," he said between coughs.

Óin harrumphed. "These are not ideal circumstances. He should be resting," he said to Tauriel, as though she was the cause of it. "Not boating."

"You make it sound so pleasant." Kili gestured for the waterskin the older dwarf was holding. Óin passed it to him and watched him drink with a critical eye. "Never mind the poison, never mind the dragon. I'm going boating."

Tauriel laughed, earning a rebuke from Óin. "Rest!" he said. "He needs rest!" She ducked her head meekly and said not another word. The apothecary was soon distracted by the shivering Bain, and moved up next to Bofur in order to fuss at the boy. Tauriel gave Kili a sidelong look. A wince had replaced his grin.

"You are in pain," she said softly.

"I'm fine." He mastered his expression and glanced up at her from underneath his dark bangs. "What about my brother? Is Fili all right?"

"The last I saw him, he was alive and well, though not for lack of trying."

"Oh? Do tell."

"He nearly jumped off a roof."

"Only nearly? I'm disappointed."

"I am afraid I could not allow it."

Kili smiled hesitantly, as though he feared it would cause him more pain. "Thank you," he said. "Someone needs to look after him, and since it couldn't be me—" He cut himself off.

Tauriel studied her hands, washed clean by her stint in the lake. They were scored with marks and burns. Though the canal had extinguished most of the flames that had caught in her clothes, she had not gotten away entirely unblemished. A few places on her arms smarted, spots in her sleeves burned away, but she could deal with those later. There were more pressing matters to deal with now, such as locating Fili and perhaps Bard. Bofur and Sigrid had taken up their oars again and were moving closer to Lake-town, or what remained of it.

"We will find him," she said. "He must be alive."

"He is. I am sure of it," Kili said. "I would know it otherwise."

He did sound certain. She met his gaze, so passionate and determined, and could not help but wonder if he remembered what he had said to her after she had healed him. She could not put it out of her mind. _You cannot be her._

_But I am_, she thought. _And I am not far away. I am here._

She could not give voice to her thoughts, not yet. Even if he did recall his words to her, she did not fully understand them herself, or what they meant to her. Indeed she hardly knew the dwarf, no matter how drawn she felt to him or how easy it was to speak with him. Tauriel forced her gaze away from Kili and across the water, seeking Fili as the others did. Like her burns, those memories would have to wait.

* * *

**Wow, this chapter turned out to be a bit of a juggernaut. If you made it through the whole thing, thanks so much for reading. I am indebted to you guys, and every review, follow, and fave makes my day that much brighter. I never expected to get this far but I've really fallen in love with these characters and can't wait to see where they go :)**

**When I'm not busy writing I fancy myself a bit of a harpist. Lately I've been composing a tune for Kili. I think it's a bit unfair that he didn't get a theme in Howard Shore's magnificent score, but Tauriel did, and so did their pairing. I think he deserves his own, though, so I've been writing one. Would anyone be interested in hearing it if I uploaded it? If so I may be encouraged to upload my arrangements of the other themes as well.**

**You guys are the best. For real though.**

**Love, Quill**


	13. Pilgrimage

"Is he dead?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"The sort that gets the answer."

"What if he _was_ dead?"

"And there's my answer."

"Would you two quit your bickering? You're like to give him nightmares with your carrying on. Keep still, Tauriel, that's his head you've got there."

"I do understand the rudiments of dwarven anatomy, thank you."

The voices came to Fili as if through water, muffled and indistinct. Had he sunk to the bottom of the lake? The last thing he could remember was jumping into the canal after Bain and swimming, swimming until he used the last of his breath and the flames turned to darkness.

"I'm very happy he's not dead, but I'm not so sure _he's_ going to be happy when he wakes up where he does." Bofur! Fili wanted to sit up and clap him on the back, the lucky bastard, but his limbs had mutinied and wouldn't obey him.

"It's the only room left in the boat." That disapproving tone could only be Óin.

"I don't think I'd complain if I were him." Kili's familiar timbre sent a thrill through Fili, from heel to head. He could hear the weariness in his brother's voice, but he heard a comforting note of mischief, too. He was alive, and he was going to be all right.

"Well, you aren't him, are you?" said Bofur. "Much to the general confusion—"

"Quiet!" The Elf's voice was calm, assertive, and disturbingly close. "He is waking up."

A small hush fell over the dwarves. Fili could hear them breathing, loud as dogs waiting for a treat.

_Am I the treat?_ he wondered. His eyes felt too heavy to open. His body was an anvil. As consciousness slowly crept over him, Fili realized he was sodden, his clothes waterlogged and his hair oversaturated.

All of a sudden he sat up, bent over, and coughed up about a gallon of lakewater. He collapsed onto his back again, feeling considerably lighter than he had before.

"Isn't he charming?" Kili said happily.

"Like you were so attractive a few hours ago."

"That was a low blow, Bofur."

"Doesn't make it any less true, m'lad."

"You're both ugly as stumps," Fili muttered. "There. Dispute settled." Wet soot was corroding his throat, but apparently such trifles didn't have any effect on his comedic abilities. Both Kili and Bofur laughed uproariously, and even Óin made a noise in his throat that sounded like a chuckle. Fili smiled and opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't.

Tauriel's face was upside down above him. He realized at once why she had sounded so close—it was because she _was _close. His head was nestled in her lap.

Fili rolled off the seat and crashed into the bottom of the boat, inciting a fresh wave of cackling, followed by coughing. His head spun as the vessel rocked back and forth like a cradle. He was disoriented by the discovery that he was in a boat and not on solid land.

"Told you he wouldn't be happy," Bofur said.

It was Kili who was coughing. He put out a hand and clasped his brother's shoulder. Fili clutched his arm, half out of gladness and half out of the need for an anchor, and buried his head in the crook of Kili's elbow.

"That was a near thing, brother," Fili said into his sleeve.

"I know," Kili said. "You almost drowned."

Fili lifted his head, armed with a retort, but it never left his lips. Kili was grinning at him, his smile a little lopsided, but more than a little roguish. Fili cuffed him. Then, on second thought, he crushed him to his chest.

"Not so tight," Kili grunted. "I still have an open wound, and I want to keep the rest of my blood _inside_ my body if at all possible."

Fili let him loose, laughing and dizzy with relief. "Never do that again."

"What, help an orc with his target practice? Fine, I'll abstain from that activity in the future, but only because you asked."

"Just let me be glad that you're alive. Can't I have that much?" Fili wrung out his braids over the side of the boat.

"You're very welcome to that much." Kili winked at someone behind him, and Fili got to his feet, turning to see that they had an audience of two dwarves, three humans, and one Elf. They were crammed into a small boat floating some distance away from the remnants of Lake-town. The moon had come out, west and low. It cast its unblinking eye on the ruin, where Smaug's body lay like a sightless garnet, the jewel of some broken crown. Fili's throat tightened. Where there had once been a town, there was nothing but dark water.

Bofur shattered his reverie. "You _were_ floating on your back like a dead trout, m'lad. The Elf lass here fished you out. Got strong arms for a lady."

Tauriel was looking pointedly elsewhere. Fili shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tipping the boat starboard.

"Sit down, son," Óin said, "before you capsize us."

The only vacant spot was next to Tauriel. Fili claimed it reluctantly, facing opposite of her, toward Kili, who was settled at the stern.

"Bit nippy, isn't it?" Kili quirked a brow.

Fili glared at him, unable to miss his point. _Fine_, he thought, speaking with his eyes. _I'll thank the Elf. But I won't like it, and we're going to have words about this later_.

"Are you cold?" Tauriel turned on the bench. Somehow concern only made her a different kind of beautiful. "Have we any blankets?"

"None," Sigrid answered from the prow. She and her sister were huddled around Bain, trying to warm him up. "We've no supplies. Nothing." Her words were hollow.

"I'm all right. I'm not cold," Kili said quickly. "But my brother is."

Fili could see that it didn't tug her heartstrings so much when it was his plight. A ribbon of jealousy uncoiled in his stomach. Why was she so invested in Kili's well-being?

He put aside his emotion. "I—it's good to see that you and Bain are safe. If it wasn't for you, we might be at the bottom of the lake right now."

Tauriel's concern wrinkled into surprise. She smoothed it out quickly. "And if not for you, the dragon would never have been slain."

"Is that true?" Bofur said.

"I don't know if I would go so far—"

"It is true," Tauriel interrupted. "He is simply being modest."

Fili looked down at his feet. The toes of his boots had melted. "What about Bard?" he said. "Did he—do we know?"

Tauriel shook her head. "We have not yet found him. I do not think—"

Bofur shushed her, but not before Bain caught the exchange. "You can say it. You think he's dead."

"I did not say that."

"Only because he stopped you." Bain gestured at Bofur, who tried and failed to adopt an innocent expression. "It's no secret. You're probably right." His eyes were hard, tearless. "But I'm not going to give up on him until I know for sure. We have to go back and look for him. Just in case. Please?"

The three children stared at them entreatingly, desperation scrawled across their faces. Fili locked gazes with Tauriel. She inclined her head ever so slightly. "I think we'd better check," he said. "It's the least we can do for the man who saved our sorry hides."

* * *

Even in death, the dragon was fearsome.

The boat scudded across the surface of the drowned city, dust drifting in an inkwell. Smaug's enormous body lay half-submerged at the heart of it, draped over the sunken roof of the Master's hall beneath him. Smoke still coiled from his chimney-like nostrils. Privately Kili wondered if he could fit his whole head into one of them. The dwarf had mostly seen the dragon from afar, and being this close brought home to him the enormity of the beast. To have felled something of this size, and to have done so by shooting it out of the air—Kili gave a low whistle of appreciation for the archer.

Tauriel spared a glance for him, clearly on the same page. "Quite the feat, is it not?"

Kili nodded.

"I feel as a pilgrim might," she said quietly, "come to pay homage."

"Pilgrims look for relics," Sigrid said. "We're not looking for a dead body. We're looking for my father." She leaned into her oar, and Bofur had to double his efforts to match her stroke. Smaug rose up before them, big as a house but far scalier than any building Kili had ever seen. Their course bent left, taking the boat close to the dragon's head, which had fallen to one side. His jaws lay ajar, revealing a collection of teeth that could have made a whole regiment's worth of longswords. The fire in his throat had been quenched for good, but Kili could still smell it, like burning metal, at the back of his nose.

A shiver ran down Kili's spine. _Now_ he was cold. He couldn't stop thinking about the others—his uncle and the rest of their company, all the dwarves and Bilbo besides. Smaug hadn't stirred of his own accord. He would not abandon his hoard lightly. Someone had woken him. Someone had _angered_ him. Kili had the sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the burglar. Smaug could have whetted his appetite with a little roast hobbit and then come to Lake-town to do some real feasting.

Fili caught the tenor of his brother's thoughts. "Mahal keep the hobbit safe."

"Safe?" Bofur didn't bother keeping his voice down. He had no truck with reverence. "I'm just hoping he's not at the bottom of that gullet, there. Anybody care to mosey on down and take a look?"

"After you," said Kili.

"I think I'll wait and be surprised."

"If your friends survived, they had best be on their guard," Tauriel said as they sailed around the dragon's snout. So far there was no sign of Bard, or of any living person, for that matter. Other boats were moving through the wreckage around them, and they seemed to have had a bit more success. "My hunting partner may take out the orcs before they reach Erebor, but if not, they will have a battle on their hands."

"Ah, yes, your cheerful fair-haired friend," Bofur said. "Hard-bitten, that one. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already got the lot's heads for trophies."

"Neither would I." Tauriel sounded amused.

Kili was nettled by the phrase _if they survived_. Of course they had survived, whatever might have happened. It did not bear thinking about the alternative.

They made laps around the dragon for at least an hour. The far maw of Mirkwood opened up to swallow the moon, and a sallow light began to stain the sky above the eastern mountains: the light of bereavement. The stars had dwindled to little more than an afterthought when Sigrid dropped her oar, covered her face with her hands, and wept. Bain wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders while Tilda put her head on her sister's knees and cried too.

For a long moment, no one said or did anything. They simply sat, letting their boat bob uselessly, as a forlorn dawn fanned out around them, laying bare what no one wanted to see: the final desolation of Smaug.

Kili listened to the grief of the broken-hearted young family before him and bowed his head. Silently his brother squeezed himself onto Sigrid's bench and picked up her oar. Fili nodded to Bofur and together they began to row, showing their backs to the dragon and making for the dim promise of shore.

* * *

**Bit of a shorter chapter after that last one...sorry for the feels! The next chapter will be along shortly, accompanied by my recording of Kili's theme on harp. Feel free to leave comments about what you'd like to see in this fic in the future; I'll try to take them into consideration! Thanks for reading, reviewing, following, etc!**

**Love, Quill**


	14. A Rare Thing Indeed

**When I said the next update would be along shortly, I wasn't referring to its length, apparently!**

**Here is the link to Kili's theme: www. youtube watch?v=Gpg2dgR88JU****.** (It has spaces in it because the site won't let me include it otherwise; if you prefer, since you obviously can't c/p from this page, the link can also be located in my profile.) The illustration matches the scene at the end of this chapter, but feel free to listen when/wherever you like.

**Just so you guys know, I haven't forgotten about any of our characters who are currently offstage. :) ****Enjoy, and happy reading!**

* * *

The sun rose, to the surprise of all. Its golden dew spilled swift and oblivious across the surface of the lake. If it was disappointed in its meager audience, who had spent half the night in false daylight and to whom its presence meant nothing but the revelation of unwanted truths, it did not say so.

Tauriel missed the darkness at once. Dawn steeped the ruin like a poorly-brewed tea, the kind that left a sticky aftertaste. The horror of the scene was unavoidable. She wanted to rub her eyes, blink a few times, and have it disappear. The stubs of buildings poked through the water, headstones in a watery graveyard, and the dragon made an ugly red stain in the middle of it all. Tauriel was glad when their boat struck the shore, which, like everything else, had not made it through the night unscathed. The fields and swaths of trees that ringed the Long Lake were scorched from Smaug's forays onto the mainland, and here and there the ground smoldered faintly.

The boats were emptying their cargo onto the shore all around them. From the looks of it, there had been more survivors than Tauriel had anticipated. The refugees congregated around the charred bones of Esgaroth's main bridge, pooling their resources. Others had thought to bring supplies, or else had already stored them in their boats, though it would not be enough—there were far too many people here for such limited resources to last very long.

Tauriel jumped out with the others to drag the boat onto shore. She moved to help Kili from the boat, but Fili swerved in front of her. He looked at her defiantly, as though daring her to say something about it. She repaid him with a cold countenance and turned away. She would have liked to give into the temptation, but she did not want to muster a spectacle in front of all these people. The morning air lay heavy and funereal on their shoulders; the new day was a burden, not a relief. She scanned the growing crowd with sympathetic eyes. The mortals looked adrift. They had lost loved ones, yes, but they had also lost their home. They were unmoored, a ship without an anchor, gulls without a roost.

A small commotion to the south sent people scattering, sowing murmurs amongst the crowd. Tauriel left the others behind and pushed her way through the throng, seeking the source of the disturbance. She need not have bothered, for it was coming to her. A line of seven wagons, each decorated more creatively than the last, trundled into the midst of the refugees. They desperately needed a new coat of paint, curls of which stuck out from all angles like vulgar tongues, and they were well-seasoned by their months on the road, but there was no mistaking them. It was the caravan that Tauriel and Legolas had rescued.

Tauriel jogged alongside them until they circled up, settling in a half-moon formation a safe distance away from the lake. The refugees were abuzz with the excitement of the new arrivals, flocking to the cavalcade with something that resembled hope. As soon as the caravan stopped, the door of every wagon was flung open, and a spate of merchants flowed forth from each. They got to work at once, unloading the contents of their caravan onto the ground enclosed by their crescent. Tauriel saw with a thrill that they had food—mostly travelling rations—and barrels of water and wine, but they had other goods as well, such as camping gear and blankets. Oh, did they have blankets! The elleth realized instantly that their trade must have lain in textiles—if not, then they had no business owning so much cloth. They had thick wool and shimmering velvet, silk like amber ale, roughspun linen and tweed, muslin and fleece and jacquard and every manner of exotic material. They were not blankets, as she had first thought, but bolts of fabric, brought back from the far reaches of Middle-Earth to sell in Esgaroth. It was a magnificent stockpile, and Tauriel could not help but feel sorry to see it so dismantled and bandied about.

Ashamedly she put aside her materialistic thoughts and made her way over to the merchants. She recognized Oswin and his nephew helping to coordinate the distribution of the fabric among the refugees. It was a frosty morning, and now that the oppression of the fire was over, the survivors were beginning to feel the chill. Everyone was wet and shivering. A little boy sneezed on Tauriel's skirt as she passed; she moved on and tried not to think about it.

Oswin's nephew handed her a ream of wool when she approached, his eyes skimming the length of her briefly before returning to the stack of cloth in front of him. He was passing a cut of plain cotton to a middle-aged man when he froze. His head rotated slowly back towards her. Shock shaved a few years off his face, not that he had any to spare.

"You!" he said. "I mean, _you_. Not a bad you, of course, a good you. I just, um, never thought—I didn't know if—"

"Quit while you're ahead, Jer." Oswin tapped the boy's foot with his walking stick. "That's one life lesson I can teach you now."

"Jer?" Tauriel smiled, fingering the edge of the wool he had given her. "Is that your name?"

"Yes. Well, it's Jerrod, but Jer for short, to save time, you know."

"I am Tauriel of the Woodland Realm. I am glad to find you well, Jer. And you, sir." Tauriel dipped her head to Oswin.

The older man nodded back somewhat begrudgingly. "I'm surprised you're finding us at all. Our luck's been worse than rats in the stew."

Tauriel could not tell if the rats or the stew got the worst of that bargain, but was quite comfortable with her ignorance in that regard.

Oswin went on. "I suppose you could say the orcs did us a favor—if we hadn't been so busy minding the damage they'd done, we would've been in town last night. But it's a queer favor, no matter which way you slice it."

The Elf nodded.

"Uncle, look!" Jer pointed over Tauriel's shoulder. "Dwarves!"

Tauriel turned. Bofur and Óin were haggling their way through the crowd in an attempt to catch up with her.

"I knew dwarves had to be involved in this business somehow," Oswin said. "I should have guessed you'd be tangled up in it, too."

"What of Kili and Fili?" Tauriel asked when they drew near.

"Kili's in no condition to be blustering about," Óin huffed.

"We've come to see if we could scarper off with a bit of bedding to make a nest with," Bofur said, eyeing the diminishing supply of cloth beadily.

"My fr—our companion is wounded," Tauriel told the humans. "He was injured by the same orcs that attacked you."

"Poisoned, sick as a dog," Bofur said. "Say, is that brocade?"

Oswin rapped the back of his outstretched hand with his cane. "No grabbing," he said. "One cloth per person. We have to make it last."

"Uncle, their friend is sick," Jer said.

"So he deserves brocade? Look around! Everyone's sick, or about to be." Oswin shook his head firmly. "Exceptions are a dangerous thing. Even one of them can cause more trouble than it's worth. Rather like a dragon. Or an Elf." He jabbed the walking stick at Tauriel for good measure.

Jer went red as a pickled beet. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "It's his arthritis that makes him so grouchy."

"I'm not grouchy! I'm practical!" Oswin fairly hurled a piece of satin at a doe-eyed girl. "If you don't like it, you can lump it."

"Your uncle is quite right," Tauriel said. "It would not be fair of us to ask for more. Thank you for your generosity." She fingers grazed her heart. "We will each take our ration and leave you to your work."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Jer said, sounding a little distraught as he watched his uncle hand Bofur and Óin one cloth each. "Go away, I mean. You can stay, if—if you want."

"I would like to be of some use," Tauriel said. "Once our party is settled, I will come see how I can help your efforts."

"You've got that poor boy wrapped around your little finger," Bofur said as they moved away.

"Have I? I do not mean to. If I said something inappropriate—"

The dwarf chuckled. "Don't get your bowstring in a knot. I'm only teasing. You didn't say anything wrong, lass—you can't help it if you have all the lads falling over you."

"They are not falling over me," Tauriel said hotly.

To her frustration he only laughed again. "Have it your way."

"Tauriel!"

Jer was running after them, a misshapen bundle clamped in his arms. "Take this," he said, holding it out. "It's the makings of a tent—not very big, but it can keep your friend out of the sun and the wind."

Tauriel gave her wool to Bofur and took the bundle from Jer. "Hannon le, mellon."

He blushed furiously and ran off again, unable to muster a reply.

"Case in point," Bofur said. "Even when they can't understand you, you're still speaking their language." He winked. She opened her mouth to contest the matter further, but he trotted on ahead of her, quite pleased with his impish handiwork.

They spent the rest of the morning establishing a humble but functional camp close to the boat. Bofur and Fili pitched the tent, which was sized for a single human and therefore more than spacious enough for a dwarf. Kili wore his fatigue like a winter cloak, leaning up against the boat and dozing in the strengthening light. The sun slowed to a crawl as it climbed the bowl of the late fall sky, making the day stretch out as long and lean as vellum held taut in its frame. Once they moved Kili into the tent along with all the cloth they could garner, they set about acquainting themselves with the refugees who had settled near them and securing what supplies they could. Bofur's proclivity for incessant conversation made them friends and critics alike. Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda knew some of their neighbors and were escorted away from the foreigners almost immediately. Fili plunked himself down at the entrance to Kili's tent, clearly prepared to guard his sleeping brother for as long as necessary.

True to her word, Tauriel returned to the caravan to help with the relief effort. She volunteered her services as a healer and soon found herself saddled with organizing triage. She was grateful for the work, which served the dual purpose of distracting her and making herself useful. Óin joined her soon after, and they fell into an easy partnership. The apothecary did know a good deal of herblore, and though they did not have many herbs or medicines, they made do with what they could scrounge from the supplies donated to them by the refugees and the merchants alike. The survivors sported varying degrees of burns, with some cases far more gruesome than the rest—disfigured faces, arms gnawed out of recognition by flame. More than one person died during the afternoon, and as the day wore on Tauriel felt herself flagging beneath the relentless sun. It dried everyone out quickly enough, but even its bright spears could not entirely shoo away the newfound chill.

Around mid-afternoon several more surprises arrived, or at least, they came as surprises to Tauriel. It seemed that Lake-town had depended on a number of shepherds to mind flocks on the mainland, and so they had been able to flee when they spotted the dragon. These shepherds returned one after the other with their animals, cattle and sheep and goats alike. One man even had a peck of hens following him about. No one could even think of killing any for meals; they were far too useful in other ways.

The ordering of affairs was still highly confused; after all, the merchants were only that: merchants. They had not been bred for governance, not even in a pinch. There were a great many things to do that had not been done; though Tauriel and Óin worked without ceasing they hardly made it to a fifth of the people that needed tending that day. They only had a few helpers, and of those only two knew anything about healing. Tauriel wished fervently for a host of Elven healers; if she had even two or three of her brethren here, they could proceed much more purposefully.

The refugees set up camp in a haphazard fashion. A number of tents went up, though most had to settle for more approximate shelter. Some towed their boats onto shore and propped them up as lean-tos with their oars as support, hunkering beneath them for warmth. Parentless children ran to and fro, crying or causing mischief, while the wounded and the ill struggled to sleep in such circumstances. After a time, a potpourri of objects and debris began to float up from the nearby skeleton of Lake-town; empty crates, cracked dishes and tableware, bottles, boots, and baubles, scraps of lucky parchment and baskets and the bindings of books robbed of their stories. Most fortuitously of all, though, came the food, or rather, anything that had been drowned instead of burned: apples and pears and big heads of cabbage; sorry, soggy loaves of bread; russets and turnips and parsnips and carrots and every other root vegetable imaginable; and fish, barrels of fish, buckets of fish, boxes of fish, fish everywhere. These uninvited guests brought with them a terrific smell, a pungent stink that curdled in Tauriel's nostrils. The spryer survivors went around collecting the food and the useful supplies from the shallows, and though they disposed of what they could they could not do away with the odor, or all the driftwood that forested around the shore. They gathered much of it and left it out to dry for fuel later, but there was still and always more.

Both Tauriel and Óin were offered more gifts than they could carry from their thankful patients, and though they did their best to politely refuse most of it, they ended up with plenty anyway: a good flint, smoking tobacco, dried meat and fruit, a ring with a glass stone, even a coil of rope, and other incidentals. As the sun began to set somewhat enviously at the opposite end of the lake, Tauriel made a trip back to their own camp to drop off some of her acquisitions and take a short break. Bofur was hard at work turning their plot of land into something habitable. He had rescued an assortment of washed-up objects and assembled them in a ring that ended and began with Kili's tent. Crates, sacks, and even half a chair squatted around the beginnings of a fire in the center, along with a few edible items. Fili had not moved from his post in front of the tent, but his exhausted body had clearly had the last laugh, because he lay fast asleep in the bruised grass, arm tucked under his head.

"I have a few contributions to make to your effort," Tauriel told Bofur in a low tone, not wanting to disturb the much-needed slumber of either brother. She deposited her bizarre presents by the unlit fire.

"Fine additions, to be sure." Bofur admired the flint in particular. "This will make my evening that much easier." He caught her looking at Fili. "Precious little princeling, isn't he? Plumb tuckered. He up and tipped over not half an hour ago. I'm like to do the same, before long."

It would have been wrong to say that sleep erased the cares and creases from Fili's face altogether, but it did make him younger. Tauriel felt a little strum of sadness in her chest, like a harp badly in need of tuning. Was this his true age, shielded from the waking world, quelled by quests, unsympathetic roads, and the wind like wargs snapping at his heels? In that moment Tauriel was reminded of why she wanted to help the dwarves in the first place, and now these Lake-towners who had no Lake-town: there were other beings in the world beside herself, beyond her own ken. They were people with troubles the breadth of which even her eyes could not perceive, who had lost homes, quiet dreams, and harps of sorrow in their chests with old strings and old songs that nobody remembered to forget.

Tauriel looked away. The sun pressed its cheek on the rim of the world.

"You should rest, too," Bofur said shrewdly. There were no tears in her eyes, but tears alone do not make sorrow. "You have done plenty, lass. Take a few hours for yourself."

The elleth shook her autumned head. "I could not sleep if I tried. These people need me."

"Aye and so they do. But you must be looked after, same as anyone. I know you're an Elf and all, but you still live and breathe and sleep and eat. You do do all those things, don't you?"

A laugh purred faint in her throat. "Of course I do."

"That's a relief. Think you could bring yourself to an apple, at least?" He juggled a few as they spoke. Tauriel held out her hand and caught the fruit neatly when he tossed it over. "There's a good lass."

"What of Kili?" she asked before taking a bite. Now that she was eating, she could admit to herself how hungry she was.

"Haven't heard a peep all day."

Tauriel leaned over Fili and lifted the tent flap a fraction of an inch. Kili was sleeping on his stomach, snoring softly. When she dropped the flap, Fili stirred at her feet. She backed away hastily as he sat up and glared at her when she became, for the second time that day, the first thing he saw upon waking.

"Go back to sleep," she said. "No one will touch him. He is safe here."

"I wasn't sleeping," Fili said. "I was just resting my eyes. I don't need—" Whatever he did not need was smothered by a yawn the size of a tree hollow.

"Then go back to resting your eyes. The terminology does not trouble me." Tauriel arranged herself on one of the sacks, which sagged beneath her weight. She took another bite of apple.

Fili ignored her advice and stretched his arms overhead, then got to his feet and began to practice his pacing in an effort to reenergize himself.

"I napped earlier." Bofur was thinking about starting a fire, brandishing the flint. "I'm sure Kili wouldn't mind if you did the same. In fact I don't think he'd notice. He's something of a log in there."

"I can't nap," Fili said, as if Bofur had proposed something preposterous. "We have to stay vigilant."

"What for? You can _see_ the dragon's carcass, just there, and her blond gentleman's probably got the orc situation well in Elf-hand."

"It isn't either of those." Fili stopped pacing a moment and considered Bofur, who was making something of a fool of himself with the flint. "What if these people decide they want a scapegoat? Who do you think they'll blame? Give me that." He snatched the flint from Bofur's hand and had a fire going in a few seconds.

Tauriel had to admit she saw his point. The refugees were worn and tired now, but who was to say what they would do after a few hollow days of cold, sickness, and scant supplies? Their hero was dead or missing, and the Master had not troubled to announce himself, if he was even there. They could easily turn into a mob, and the little oddment of foreigners had no advocates, now that Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda had made themselves scarce.

"Be that as it may, you need sleep," Tauriel said. "I can stand guard for you in a few hours, but first there are more people I must see to." She expected him to jerk the reins as he always did, but instead he nodded. He picked up a piece of driftwood and poked at the puttering fire. Tauriel angled her face away. She had dealt with her own burns during the afternoon, but if she never saw a flame again, it would be too soon.

"You would do best to leave as soon as you can," she said. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"Of course we must go to Erebor." Fili scratched at his beard. "But Kili is too weak to travel, and might be for a few days. I'm not leaving without him, no matter what news we hear of the others."

"What about you?" Bofur asked Tauriel. "Will you be going after your Elf friend?"

Tauriel delayed her response a moment. Part of her wanted to follow Legolas and finish their mission if he had not done so already—but the larger part of her knew well that she would not be leaving without the dwarves. She certainly could not go home, at least not alone, and she was not even sure that she wanted to. Now that she had had a taste of the wide world beyond the wood-caverns of Mirkwood, she was thirsty for more. She wanted to see Erebor, the piles of gleaming gold within the mountain, and the ruin of Dale at its doorstep.

"No, I think not," she said at last. "I think I would stay and help you, if that is agreeable. As Fili said, the danger has not passed altogether, and I believe I can be of some aid."

Bofur beamed. "The Elves are a folk of understatement, aren't they now? It's more than agreeable, at least for me, lass. I'd feel a lot more comfortable knowing your bow's nearby, at least until our own archer mends."

Without asking her permission Tauriel's gaze drifted to Fili, who was watching the fire with his lips pursed over his answer. He ran a hand through his hay-colored hair.

"You can stay." Bofur applauded him. "Not that I'm asking you, or telling you. It's your choice."

"Then I choose to stay."

Fili nodded once and moved back from the fire. The sternness in his face had given way. He took a seat directly across from her.

"Listen," he said, though she was already doing that. "I'm sorry for the way I acted before, in the boat. It was childish. I owe you one, for pulling me out of the water, not to mention saving my skin more than once back in Lake-town."

She shrugged. "You would have done the same for me."

"The annoying thing about that is that you're right."

"Being right is one of my many pastimes, you know."

Fili cracked a smile at that.

"Here comes trouble," Bofur warned, but it was only Óin, bustling over with his brow hanging determinedly over his nose.

"I need you," he panted at Tauriel. "An infant with bad burns—I'm scared to touch her."

Tauriel doubted that she possessed any special affinity for children that the old dwarf did not, but she rose and went with him. They spent the rest of twilight and most of the evening working together and caring for the refugees, whose need for medical attention seemed endless. Nightfall blunted the noises of the camp, but the sound of suffering lingered on, as persistent as running water. The stars pricked the dark skin of the sky and the wind grew needle-sharp near midnight. Tauriel ordered Óin off to sleep for a few hours and forged on alone. It must have been halfway through the night when he returned to change places with her, insisting that she take a rest as well.

The fire Fili had kindled was burning low back at their camp, a tarnished teapot warming itself nearby. Fili himself had nodded off again, propped up against a crate with his sword across his lap. His head had tipped back and he was snoring even louder than his brother. _How fearsome. _Bofur dozed with his hat over his face. Tauriel felt a tug of affection as she stepped over the pair of them. Despite their earlier conversation, she did not think they would come under any threats this night. She let them sleep on.

A dart of fear pierced her when she peered into the tent and found it Kili-free. At once her hands flew to her knives, but something in her peripheral vision stopped her from drawing them. She faced the shoreline and felt the dart pluck itself from her heart.

She approached the water on light feet. Kili had pushed Bard's boat back onto the lake, forcing the flotsam and jetsam to make room, and had built himself a nest at the stern. He had appropriated the sacks from camp to use as pillows, and a blanket was draped over his legs. The boat bobbed just a few feet off shore, tethered by a rope tied to a stake in the ground. He had his back to her, a battered tin cup in his hand, and his eyes on the stars.

"I always thought it is a cold light," Tauriel said. "Remote and far away."

Kili nearly upset the boat. He sloshed some of his drink over the side of his cup and tried to sit up straighter, patting frantically at the spill.

"Tauriel—I'm sorry—I didn't hear you coming."

"The fault is mine," she said. "Your brother has berated me more than once for being too stealthy. I should have listened more closely, it seems."

His face relaxed into a smile. "He might have been on to something."

Tauriel moved closer, lifting her gaze to the sky. With the lights of Esgaroth extinguished, the stars shone undimmed and unchallenged, their many twins winking up at them from the perfect mirror of the Long Lake below.

"I may have reconsidered my stance on the stars," Kili admitted. When she regarded him expectantly, he went on. "I still find them…inscrutable at times, but not so cold. And definitely very beautiful."

She met his eyes then, and he glanced down shyly.

"Permission to come aboard?"

"Oh, of course—by all means." He reached for the oars leaning against the prow. "How rude of me—" He jumped again when Tauriel leapt nimbly to the edge of the boat, effortlessly negotiating the short span of water between them. Then he grinned and abandoned the oars. "I forgot that you're basically a tree cat."

"Tree cat?" That made her laugh. "Are those common where you come from?"

"In Ered Luin?" He scoffed. "I should think not. But Mirkwood has giant spiders, so it didn't seem beyond the realm of possibility."

Tauriel slid into the boat and settled onto the seat in front of him. She frowned at the mention of spiders. "Such darkness did not always run free in our lands. Once it was called the Greenwood, wild and untamed, perhaps, but wholesome and full of wonder…" She trailed off, exhuming some long-buried memory. "But I am too young to have known such a time. Now it is a place of peril, and of hidden shadows with no name."

They shared a silence between them, both thinking dark and unlovely thoughts: Tauriel's, of the gloom that stretched out from Dol Guldur, and Kili's of the white orc that sought his uncle's head.

It was Tauriel who broke the shackles of her mind's pall first. "It is a new moon." Her breath made a cold cloud between them.

Kili shook himself. "It's the day after Durin's Day. The last full moon of autumn," he explained when her expression turned quizzical. "But it is only Durin's Day if the moon and sun appear in the sky together, as they must have yesterday. Of course, I did not see them."

"Neither did I. And more is the pity—it is a rare thing indeed. Strange, that they should spend all their long years apart, thinking themselves a paradox, when they are born of the same light."

"Maybe they don't believe they're a paradox," Kili said. "Maybe it's everyone else. Maybe it's the stars."

"Perhaps you are right." Tauriel searched the sky, pining after the moon. "I am glad they flout the laws of night and day, if only for a while." She hesitated, wondering if she should ask him what he remembered of the night before, but her courage failed her at the last moment. Instead she said, "Why do you call it Durin's Day?"

"The last light on that day is meant to reveal the keyhole of the hidden door into the Lonely Mountain. Thorin and the others must have found it, or Smaug would not have woken."

"They went into the mountain? Even when they knew there was a dragon there?"

"Waking him was not part of the plan. Something must have gone wrong." Tauriel could hear the fear crouching in his voice. "I should have been there. I should be there now."

She did not say that if he had been there, he might not be drawing breath at this moment, here in this boat with her. She was sure he knew that. She followed his sightline north, to where the Lonely Mountain lay against the stars like some far citadel.

"We will go," she said. "As soon as you are able, we will go." She was not looking at him, so she did not see his mouth open when he heard her choice of pronoun, but she felt him shift slightly behind her, sending a ripple out around the boat and jostling the debris.

"Tauriel."

She turned and felt herself laid bare in the honesty of his eyes. He saw _her_, as she was, and he wanted no more and no less from her. It was strange to know that just from studying his face, unguarded as it was in the darkness of the new moon. She did not think she had ever had anyone look at her that way, and it made her feel ravenous with revelation, like a pendulum that had never realized it was marking time with every pass until someone, a stranger, had the good sense to point it out. Her breath stopped making clouds.

"Why did you come?" he said, and Tauriel knew he wanted the real answer, not the one she was meant to say. So she gave it to him.

"I came because I wanted to."

The truth of her reply grew up like a tree between them, and it spread its branches over their heads, one copper and one coal. And in that deep hour on the far side of Durin's Day, it bloomed with a secret that only so many people have known, for it was a secret that took a paradox to know it, and such a paradox is a rare thing indeed.


	15. One Brother's Misgivings

Kili woke to the sound of shouting. It was near dawn, and the camp was in an uproar.

"Tauriel."

Her eyes flew open at once. She sat up from where she slumped in the hull of the boat, looking for all the world like a hound who'd heard the hunting horn. Then a smile drew across her lips. She threw off the blanket.

"What is it?" said Kili in bewilderment. Her sharp ears must have caught something his couldn't in the commotion; to him, it was just a gallimaufry of gasps and _good graciouses._

The Elf climbed the edge of the boat and jumped to shore, hardly farther than a normal Tauriel-stride.

"Wait!" He grabbed one of the oars and shoved it into the water, splashing a bit uselessly in his haste. "Tauriel—"

She doubled back, her smile laced with apology. She took the rope in her long, lovely hands and reeled him in, pulling the boat just far enough onto shore that he could get out. Thankfully, he didn't have to beg for more help—she seemed to understand that he couldn't move well on his own, and gave him her arm for support. Once he was on dry land, she crouched down in front of him. He blinked at her proffered back.

"Are you having me on?"

"I am trying," she deadpanned.

"Are you trying to be funny?" He tested his weight on his right leg and failed miserably, leaning back against the stern of the boat. "I guess I don't understand Elf humor."

"Ah, I see, you are being high and mighty. I suppose I should have expected no less from royalty. Lucky for both of us, I am well practiced in the art of managing princes." Her shoulders angled cagily. "Tell me, then, how did you find your way down here in the first place?"

Kili recognized that look; he'd seen it more times than he could count. It had been one of his mother's favorites when he was a child, wild and feckless. It meant she was about to use his own arguments against him, to trick him into obedience. Apparently such cunning was one thing dwarves and Elves were willing to share.

He braced himself. "Fili lent me his shoulder."

"And if I were your height, I would do the same. As it is, we will move much faster like this, and there is someone coming who I would like to see."

Kili waged an internal battle, trying to decide what he wanted more: to find out what she was being so tight-lipped about, or to preserve what he had left of his dignity.

"Mahal beside me," he muttered. "My brother—"

"Would do well not to scorn the help of Elves," Tauriel filled in, "because a time may come when he is forced to rely on it. If this is too great a blow to your manfulness, speak up now, and I will go on and send Fili back for you."

Whatever had whipped the refugees into such a frenzy was on the move. The gathered crowd was shifting, parading towards the heart of the camp, where the caravan sat idle in its gaudy half-moon. Now Kili could hear laughter, and the sort of sobbing that only accompanied tears of joy. Whatever it was, it was good news, and he could use some of that.

"Fine," he said. Tauriel's eyes sparkled. "But you must swear to keep the mockery to a minimum."

"I would never dream of mocking you," the Elf said solemnly. "You are far too serious a prince for such pleasantries."

Then she grinned, and it was wicked.

Kili scolded his own smile into a frown. _How dare you betray me like that!_

He let go of the boat and wrapped his arms around Tauriel's neck. Her pulse fluttered warm against his arm, a tiny moth beating its soft wings towards the light. Kili felt the cocoon of his own heart shiver in response; something was in there, and it was trying to get out. He wondered if she could feel it, with his chest pressed so close on her back. Her arms snaked back around his legs and hooked under his knees, careful not to trespass on his injury. Then she was on her feet, hoisting him up easy as a feather pillow. Bofur had been right when he said she was strong—he'd seen the evidence when she'd dragged Fili out of the water, but testing it out himself was rather different.

And it wasn't half bad. The last time Kili could remember touching her was when she handed him his mother's remembrance stone through the bars of his cell in Mirkwood. Just a brush of the fingertips. Now he had almost every inch of his body in contact with hers: his arms on her collarbone, his legs around her waist, his nose by her ear. She smelled heavenly, in defiance of all common sense—not of the road, but a little like a campfire under a pine tree, or a flower that only bloomed in the fall. Her hair, tickling his chin, was practically intoxicating.

Kili tried to focus on the destination, but the journey was altogether distracting. Tauriel went as fast as she could without jostling him, heading for the wagons. Their path cut straight through their company's camp, but the other dwarves had already vacated the premises, doubtless to investigate the hubbub up ahead. In fact, Kili thought he could see his brother's fair head near the outskirts of the crowd, and there were the telltale crooked ears of Bofur's hat.

"You can see everything from up here," he said, and he felt Tauriel's laugh in his hands.

"Every mode of transportation has its advantages."

Now that he'd tried it, Kili thought he might have to agree. Still, he resolved to find imitation crutches as soon as possible, unless he wanted to forfeit his good dwarven reputation entirely.

Tauriel muscled into the crowd. People fell aside when they saw the strangeness of the pair trying to get past, though all the excitement seemed to take the edge off their surprise. Everyone was chattering animatedly, like their town hadn't just been burned and then swallowed whole.

"Stuck it straight to his heart—"

"—line going back to Girion—"

"Where's he been? He looks awful—"

From his vantage point Kili could see over the heads of most of the Lake-towners, who were shorter than Tauriel as a rule. That meant he could see just who looked so awful.

It was Bard.

The bargeman did look a fright. His clothes had been chewed into rags by flame, and the ends of his dark hair were frayed. Red, angry blisters flared across his cheeks. The skin of his left temple was mottled and desiccated, and the lobe of his left ear had been burned away. Everything about him read weariness except for his eyes, which were as alert and determined as ever. They brimmed with tears as he hugged his weeping children to him.

"Well, shave me bald and paint petunias on my pate." The lilt of Bofur's voice had turned into an all-out jig. The dwarf had put his back to the family reunion, all the better to gawk at Tauriel and Kili as they wended their way through the crush of humans. He grabbed Fili by the arm and forced him around.

Fili's mouth fell open at the sight of his brother aloft.

"_Kili?_"

It was a funny thing, his heart, and so fickle. One minute it wanted nothing more than to be set free, and the next, all it wanted to do was hide. It dropped like a stone under the force of Fili's frigid stare. Kili remembered the reason why he'd objected to this idea in the first place—it was standing right in front of him.

He patted Tauriel's shoulder desperately. "Down, put me down." She knelt, her face impassive, and he tugged out of her grasp, grimacing as her fingers snagged on his bandages. He hopped aside, expecting Fili to meet him halfway, to offer his hand, but his brother was frozen in the ice of disbelief and disapproval. Bofur moved past him and draped Kili's arm over his shoulder instead.

"I knew the dragon was a sign that the end was nigh," he said. "Now I've seen a man rise from the dead and a lady Elf carry a dwarf like a sack of potatoes!"

"That is hardly how I would carry a sack of potatoes," Tauriel said, deliberately missing his point. "It would be highly inefficient. Excuse me for a moment."

Her exit seemed to stir something in Fili. "Are you mad?" he hissed. "Flirting with the Elf is one thing—but letting her manhandle you like that? There has to be a line somewhere, Kili. And I'm drawing one. I'm drawing it right here." He waved his hand back and forth in front of him to demonstrate.

Kili's abashment reared back and unsheathed claws of anger. "She wasn't manhandling me," he retorted. "She was helping me. Why does that bother you so much?"

"I don't trust her, and neither should you. She's an Elf—they're raised to hate us. It's in their blood."

"Which is it?" Kili lifted his chin rebelliously. "Nature or nurture?"

"Both."

"I don't believe that. And I don't believe it's in our blood to hate them. Because I don't feel it, Fili."

Fili turned away with a scoff, like he wanted to walk away, but he thought better of it at the last second and wheeled back. "Ask yourself why she's here. Do you really think she stays out of charity?"

Kili worked his jaw back and forth, searching for an answer, and clamped his mouth shut when he found none—or at least, none he wanted to share.

But it was impossible to keep his thoughts a secret from Fili, who could read them in his eyes. He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You don't think—you can't mean it. She doesn't _care_ for you, brother."

"What do you know?" Kili said. "You don't know her."

"Neither do you!" Fili threw a glance towards the caravans, where Tauriel was greeting Bard in the same manner that she had farewelled him—with a bowed head and a hand over her heart. A smile set her face alight. "Don't be fooled by the high cheekbones and creamy skin. What would Thorin say if he could see the way you were fraternizing with her?"

Kili recoiled at his own words, spoken a lifetime ago, thrown back at him. "He should be glad that I'm making friends, not enemies. Don't we have enough of those?"

"We don't need to take any spies under our wing, either."

"She's a spy now?"

Fili, shrugged. "We didn't exactly part with her king on good terms."

"And you think she did?" Kili wished he had the use of both his legs. He felt infantile and inept, hanging off Bofur like this. "She went against him to come after us."

"Is that what she told you?"

Kili didn't respond. She _had_ told him that, last night in the boat. They'd talked until weariness laid claim to both of them. He'd told her more of their quest, of his desire to see their homeland again, and of the treasure that lay within the mountain. In turn, she told him more about her pursuit of the orcs out of Mirkwood, and had confessed that she'd gone after them without Thranduil's permission. In choosing to help the dwarves, she believed she had effectively renounced her title as captain of his guard, and potentially even forsaken her people.

She had spoken of the possibility with typical Elvish dispassion, as though even the thinnest sliver of emotion would upset her equilibrium. For his part, Kili could hardly conceive of the idea. He'd spent his whole life dreaming of the day they would retake their homeland. He would give anything to belong somewhere. Her willingness to sever all ties with her birthplace both awed and appalled him. She had guts, that was for sure—guts and strong arms. Fili hadn't mentioned those in his abbreviated survey of her characteristics.

"I'd be dead if it wasn't for her," Kili said. "Not even. I'd be—I don't want to think about what I'd be."

A man bumped into him in his eagerness to get a glimpse of Bard; the dwarf blanched at the spike of pain that shot through his leg.

Fili's demeanor gentled slightly. "I can't deny that she's done well by us so far. I'm grateful to her for that. But that doesn't mean that I trust her, or that I think she's here out of the goodness of her heart. I don't want you all lovestruck—" he winced at the shape of the word on his tongue "—and mooning, just to end up heartbroken when she goes running home to Thranduil."

"Let me get this straight. Because I'm acting like a decent dwarven being means I have to be lovestruck? And because she wants to help, she's automatically got to have a trick up her sleeve?"

"Thorin said the Elf-king was after something in the hoard—jewels of some sort. He tried to bargain for them when we were in Mirkwood, but Thorin refused him. He could easily have sent Tauriel to get them herself."

"In that case, she's a terrible thief," Kili snapped. "For starters, she's in the wrong place."

"Or else she's exactly where she wants to be. Look at you—you're already under her spell."

"You said she could come with us to the mountain,"Bofur said uncertainly. "You told her as much yourself, Fili."

The fair-haired dwarf shook his head. "I said she could stay—I did not say she could come with us to Erebor. Thorin would never allow it, even if I would. Until we leave, I think it's best to have her close. I like to keep a threat where I can see it." He reached out and clasped Kili's shoulder. "Be careful, brother. Guard yourself. Yearn after her if you must, but do not trust her. Think of what our uncle would say."

_Say_ was putting it mildly. Thorin Oakenshield had a deep-seated hatred of Elves and the temper of a behemoth. The proper verb for his reaction, Kili expected, would be something along the lines of _bellow_.

"We have to look out for each other," Fili went on. "Or else no one will." He looked down at Kili's bandaged knee. "And we have to find you some crutches."

With that, Fili left them, joining Tauriel in her welcome of the prodigal bargeman. Kili glared after him. Then his eyes moved to Tauriel, softening as they traced her tall, noble silhouette. She was inspecting the burn on Bard's temple as he spoke to Fili, her slender brows knit in concentration. Her skin shone with the remembrance of starlight. Kili's heart wrung itself.

_How could you say it was a dream?_

Those had been her words to him two nights ago. Only, he couldn't remember saying anything of the kind.

He didn't want it to be a dream. He definitely didn't want to wake up and discover that his brother was right, that he couldn't trust her, that she was using him. It didn't seem possible—not after what she'd said to him last night, and not looking at her now, with her tongue caught between her teeth as she worked, her sweet-smelling hair falling generously down her back, and her hazel eyes clouded with concern.

A minute passed. "I like the lass," said Bofur. "If my opinion matters."

Kili looked away, but it wasn't enough. He could still feel her, there at the edge of his consciousness, like the gossamer fingerprint of the moon left behind on the daylit sky.

"It doesn't," he said flatly. "Only Fili's does. He's made that perfectly clear."

* * *

**Thank you all so much for your lovely reception of my little harp song! I'm glad you enjoyed it. There will definitely be more in the future...I'm working on getting Fili's Theme into shape at the moment for you all :D**

**Sadly, I'm headed back to school this weekend (last semester ever, woo!), and that means my updates will probably slow down a bit. It depends on coursework and other obligations, of course, but I'm going to shoot for one chapter a week. The story's about to get a lot more complicated here, with new (and returning *winkwink*) characters and other storylines to weave in (totally scary but exciting), so that will take more time to work out too. But never fear, I won't abandon this fic, or you guys. **

**As always, many thanks and many hugs for reading, reviewing, faving, and following. You're the best! Couldn't do it without you.**

**Love, Quill**


	16. Kings and Masters

The sun rose to find the camp in the middle of an election.

Or so the Lake-towners were calling it. Tauriel was not so certain it could be called an election when there was only one candidate, and a reluctant one at that, but she supposed that mortals, who led such dreary, abbreviated lives even when they were completely dragonless, must be allowed their fancies.

Bard faced the boisterous crowd from a three-legged chair. Behind him, the wagons rose up as a bulwark, but before and all around him, the remaining population of Lake-town folded in. The surviving elders and the captain of the watch had been delegated as public representatives, along with several businessmen of influence and debatable repute. They turned the caravan's crescent into a full moon, their makeshift seats of debris and oversaturated furniture completing the ring, with Bard as the bulls-eye.

Once the novelty of Bard's miraculous homecoming (a term of loose application) had worn off, every man, woman, and child in the camp had discovered—and for some of them this was rather unexpected—that each of them had something to say. Since Bard had slain the dragon, that seemed automatically to garner him the de facto leadership of their slapdash community. As she listened to the discussion Tauriel got the impression that the people had looked up to him for some time before this, both as a protector of the common folk and defender of the weak.

The bargeman accepted this mantle with tasteful humility, just as he accepted the burden of the camp's attention, though he did not seem to covet it. When the crowd became restless he easily wrangled them, asking questions that went straight to the heart of the matter—Where was the Master? What had been done? What needed doing? Had anyone sent for help?

Some questions were more easily answered than others; rather, the first question was the only one that had an easy answer. No one knew where the Master was, and they had been quite without rulership, unless the merchants could be counted, or the odd partnership of the Elf and the dwarf who had taken the health of the refugees in hand. Quite well in hand, it was admitted, for all their peculiarity. There was some brief grumbling about dwarves and their meddling ways, and though the issue was passed over in favor of the question of leadership, Tauriel suspected they had not heard the last of such complaints.

The situation devolved into an outcry for an impromptu election—and the only candidate that anyone cared about was, of course, Bard the bargeman, the clever archer and slayer of the dragon. Seeing that nothing he said or did would slake the camp's thirst for action, Bard agreed to discuss the matter as long as it was in a more orderly fashion. His children had magicked up the chair for him and helped him into it. Now they were gathered around him, Tilda at his feet and the older two at either shoulder, watching over their father like sentries. Tauriel took on the task of treating Bard's ailments. She made short work of setting his broken nose, which had been crooked for so many hours that she did not think it would ever fully remember its proper shape. She sent Sigrid off in search of supplies, and the girl returned with fresh water, linens, a jar of honey, and needle and thread for one of the deeper cuts.

"I'm sorry we disappeared like that," Sigrid said quietly as the Elf began to clean the worst of the burns, the one on his left temple. "We shouldn't have abandoned you."

"You did nothing of the kind." Tauriel's hands were gentle and slow. "Believe it or not, I do understand the pain of loss. I did far worse than you, when my parents were taken from me."

Sigrid paused. "I—I'm sorry," she said again. "I didn't—"

"It was many, many years ago." Tauriel smiled at her. "I did not mean for you to pity me, only to know that I understand. Would you hand me a cloth?"

The crowd was calling for the tale of Smaug's death and Bard's escape. Once everyone quieted down enough for him to be heard, he obliged his audience with a rather plain recounting of his heroism, judiciously excising certain portions of the story. He left out any mention of his companions—being Bain, Tauriel, and Fili—entirely, and said nothing of the attack by the Master's lackey. Tauriel suspected he wished to deflect any unnecessary attention from the dwarves, which she deemed wise, as they were already a point of contention. She kept quiet as she cleaned his burns and listened to him tell of how he had survived the city's destruction.

He did not make it sound particularly daring. "It was dumb luck, mostly, and good diving. The dragon crashed through the Master's hall—in the end it was Smaug himself who saved me. I managed to leap onto his neck and cling to him using the coins jammed between his scales until the lake settled. I was delirious from the smoke and the burns, but somehow I washed to shore without drowning. I woke a few hours ago, and when I saw the lights of the camp, I came at once."

"Well, color me impressed," said Oswin. "You're one lucky bargeman."

"You can say that again." Bard winced as Tauriel cleared out a patch of grime from under his skin. "When I first opened my eyes and saw the stars above me, I thought surely I had died."

"We're very glad you didn't, Father," Sigrid said.

Bard's smile was tight, so as not to disturb his burn. "That's good news." He squeezed Tilda's shoulder. "I'm rather pleased about it myself." His children were all glowing with contentment.

That happy sentiment, however, was not shared by the rest of the camp, whose thoughts had roamed back to their proposed election. Everyone agreed that they wanted Bard to take the Master's place, but Bard still balked at the idea.

"It doesn't sit well with me to take a man's title when he may still return to claim it. No," he said, shaking his head, "I will not do it. I will oversee the efforts here for now, if that's what you wish, but only until we solve the mystery of the true Master's fate."

This pronouncement was ill met. From the way his people spoke of him, Tauriel thought that the Master must have been a tyrant, interested only in wealth and commerce rather than his town's welfare. She counted herself fortunate. Thranduil might have been a cold ruler, but at least he cared for his realm.

A young man, a hostler, came forward. "I saw him flee myself," he said. "He rode out on his horse just after the first roar!"

"Then he's probably leagues down the River Running by now," said Oswin, stamping his cane.

"Or charred into ash when Smaug blasted the mainland," another merchant said.

"Wherever he is, it isn't here," said an elder, a brown-haired woman with a square felted cap. "We need a new leader, sure as the sunset. We need Bard—Bard of the line of Girion!"

The man next to her rose from his barrel. "I second Ana. Bard the Dragon-shooter. King Bard!"

And then, to Tauriel's surprise, they all took up the cry, bandying it about like a banner flying high in a fierce wind. Soon the whole camp was trumpeting it: "King Bard! King Bard!"

Even as they chanted, a velvet-cloaked figure burst from the crowd and threw aside his cloth. Tauriel recognized the man beneath it only as a refugee; she had treated a shallow scrape on his arm the day before. The crowd reacted dramatically, shying away as though the man had raised a switch to them. He had straggly hair the color of strained carrots, a preposterous moustache, and a doublet that remembered nothing of its former luxury. He held up his hands and shook them until the last "King Bard!" died away.

"King?" he said with acrimony. "When has there been a king in Esgaroth? There has only been a Master. The line of Girion means nothing to Lake-town! Let this glorified archer go north if he wants to be king, and rule Dale with a crown of dragon scales and the black arrow for his scepter!"

At this the people erupted. Everyone was talking, shouting, arguing all at once. The clamor was so spectacular that Tauriel thought her head might shatter; her hypersensitive ears drank in the noise, so near and so loud, and drowned her in it. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, waiting for the refugees to wear themselves out, but after several moments passed and the torrent showed no signs of ceasing, Bard got to his feet, grimacing from the strain. Tilda crawled out of his path as he stepped forward and lifted his arms for order.

Though he had won the people's respect, he was no wizard. The commotion persisted for a little while longer before the camp finally abided by his command and went quiet, if not altogether silent.

"You asked after the Master," Bard said when he had the floor again, "and here he is."

"Hiding like a coward!" cried the hostler, inspiring a swell of taunts.

The Master (for that was who the orange-haired man was, as Tauriel now understood) squared his shoulders. "Who can blame me?" he said. He ignored the volunteers. "Had I perished in the flames, you would be left leaderless!"

"You left us leaderless anyway!" This retort came from Bain, whose face was purpling. "You might as well have perished!"

Bard laid a warning hand on his son's shoulder, though not before a chorus of similar sentiments rose up to echo his own.

"King Bard!" they cried again.

"Peace!" said Bard, and he meant to go on, but the Master stole the opportunity out from under him.

"Your blame is misplaced," he told the crowd. "I may have thought to save myself from the fire—as any man would—but the fire itself was not my doing. Think—who woke the dragon in the first place? Not I!"

"Thorin Oakenshield!" someone said. "The dwarves woke the dragon!"

"Yes," said the Master slowly, letting the realization percolate. Tauriel felt her throat tighten in apprehension. "They waltzed into our town, singing songs of mirth and riches, enjoying and abusing such hospitality as was freely given! Then, with the bounty of our help and our trust, they condemned us. What do you need of kings? The King under the Mountain brought us no wealth but ruin—Thorin Oakenshield as good as struck the flint!"

Tauriel handed her cloth to Sigrid and skimmed the crowd for the dwarves. She hoped they had the good sense to slip away, if they had not done so already. The Master was not yet finished.

"Now they have their mountain, and the splendor of many golden halls," he said. "What of us? What do we have? They promised us a share. But all we got was a broken town and more widows than we have wives!"

Someone began to sob. That was enough for the camp to abandon its aspirations for King Bard and turn instead to matters of revenge and recompense. Soon they remembered that they had some dwarves in their very midst, and set about tracking them down, ignoring Bard's protests and the smug satisfaction of the Master, who had gotten exactly what he wanted. Tauriel wrapped her hands around her knife-hilts, but she could hardly fight several hundred half-drowned refugees, no matter how close they were to rioting. She was forced to watch as the dwarves were brought forth, with Kili shared between Fili and Bofur, and made to stand before Bard and the Master, apparently to face judgment.

The wilder and more desperate among the Lake-towners called for punishment, inventing some more drastic than others, but most simply demanded remuneration for their tragedy, the promised share of Erebor's treasure. Tauriel did not draw her blades, but she moved to stand behind the dwarves, menacing the crowd preemptively.

"Enough!" Bard bellowed at last, stepping in front of Kili. "I will not see them harmed or humiliated! Have you forgotten how eagerly you sang their songs, how willingly you armored them and sent their brethren off to the mountain? Do not let your grief make you cruel, or your anger turn you hypocrite. Without Fili—" he indicated the fair-haired dwarf "—I could never have slain the dragon. What say you to that?"

No one, in fact, had anything to say.

"And who amongst you can think they have not suffered losses, as we have? I doubt that any who faced Smaug in Erebor still lives."

Tauriel saw Fili stiffen, but for once he found the prudence to hold his tongue.

"Now is not the time for laying blame, whether it is on the Master, or on the dwarves, or on anyone else. We will come to the matter of the treasure in due time, and the recovery of Dale besides." Suddenly he seemed tall and proud, and a distant light gleamed golden in his eyes. "But for now, I can accept no kingship, and we should put aside our anger in favor of hard work. I will gladly serve you, under the Master's law, to rebuild our home. We can speak more on discontent and reform later, when we have time. There is much to be done, but I think there are enough of us to do it, if we work together."

Begrudgingly, almost disappointedly, the refugees set aside their fervor, and settled into something resembling order again. The dwarves were allowed to go free, and the makeshift council reassembled itself, this time with the Master seated next to Bard in the middle. Still watchful and wary, Tauriel resumed her care of Bard's burns, washing them, treating them with a little clover honey, and dressing them with clean bandages. After from the damage to his ear, the worst burn was on the side of his right foot.

The discussion went on for some time, and Tauriel remained even after she had finished stitching the deepest of Bard's cuts, to hear what could be heard of Lake-town's plan for restoration. Bard was an efficient leader, and soon had the able-bodied of the camp divided into groups: builders to provide protection and shelter, seamstresses to stitch together tents from the caravan's leftover fabric, cooks to prepare food and drink, caretakers for the orphaned children, search parties to scout for survivors and more salvageable supplies. The business of healing Bard left to Tauriel, who accepted it gladly, once everyone agreed she was welcome to it. She was assigned more helpers, including Sigrid, and her own plot of land, soon to be occupied with a few tents and as many resources as could be mustered.

Bard took Tauriel aside as the crowd began to disperse.

"I need to speak with you about something else," he said. "Will you walk with me?"

The elleth frowned. "You should take some rest."

"And I will, I promise. Please indulge me for a few minutes."

They wandered down to the waterside, which was gradually clearing as more and more of the debris was lugged out onto dry land. Bard walked slowly, which meant they were stopped by a dozen people who wanted to greet him, bless him, or hound him. By the time they reached the shore and put the multitudes behind them, the bargeman looked more haggard than ever, and his limp had become more pronounced.

"That will go away faster, if you keep off your feet." Tauriel gestured to his leg.

Bard snorted. "The throne of a good king sees little use."

"Ah, but you are not king. Not yet."

"It was a narrow miss." He gazed out across the water, to where Smaug's body was steadily sinking. "I must thank you, lady. For saving my son, and keeping my family safe."

The Elf smiled at his politeness. "I am but a doer of small deeds, next to Lake-town's savior."

That made him laugh. "My ego isn't big enough for such words."

"On the contrary," said Tauriel. "It is the perfect size. To lead with humility is to lead with strength."

"As wise as she is fair! They will sing many songs about you one day, Lady Tauriel, if they do not already."

"You are very kind, but I am no lady. I am the captain of King Thranduil's guard—or I was."

His brow shifted. "That is even better," he said, "for I must prevail upon you again, and ask you for a favor."

Tauriel clasped her hands behind her back and waited.

"It is obvious that we won't be able to do this on our own," he went on. "We need outside help, and lots of it. I don't know you, or how you came to be here, or even why you stay, though I welcome your efforts, and will be happy to have you as long as you wish to be here. I don't mean to seem ungrateful, because you've done so much already. But I must ask. Would the Elvenking aid us?"

Her lips thinned. She was quiet for so long that Bard spoke again.

"I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong? For all our trade with your people, we know very little of your ways."

She freed her arms and fashioned her mouth into a kinder shape.

"It was nothing you said. It is simply that I do not know if he would help you. Thranduil is not known as an empathetic ruler, nor does he have much taste for philanthropy. But what makes him iron-hearted also makes him wise and just. He might be reasoned with, if the right person brought his attention to the right things." Tauriel came to a stop. She turned to Bard, her expression grave once more. "But I am not that person.

"When I said I _was_ the captain of the guard, what I really meant was I do not know whether I still am. I left Mirkwood without my king's permission. He has shown me great leniency in the past, but I do not know how much further I may test him. For all I know, he has declared me an exile."

"Do you really believe that?" Bard said. "You think he would punish you for wanting to do what was right?"

"What is right to one person is a violation to another," Tauriel said. "As you said, you know little of our ways. And they are hard to know. Thranduil is sworn to caprice, above all else." She shook her head. "From him, any reaction is possible. I have no way of knowing. But I do not think he would look upon me graciously if I went slinking back only to make demands. Likely he would refuse my request and you would be in the same place as you are now, only—"

"Only one healer short." Bard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And our finest, at that." He looked away from her and sighed. "Well, I can't blame you for what isn't your fault. Though I do wish there was some way. We are hard-pressed for allies in these lands. Do you think he would listen if I sent messengers to his hall?"

"He mistrusts outsiders, especially trespassers. I think your messengers will end up as prisoners, if they get far enough to be found by Elves—which is unlikely to begin with."

"Still, I think we must try. We won't last otherwise."

Tauriel scanned the panorama of the camp. It was a wretched enough scene, though not so plaintive as before, now that the refugees had mobilized and given themselves purpose. Nevertheless, they were a ragtag group, and the elleth could already predict the insignificance of their efforts. It was a morale-boosting tactic only, albeit one that had been very strategic on Bard's part: a distraction that could busy them until he could find real solutions to their problems.

Thranduil could be a solution if he wanted to; he certainly had enough resources to expedite their recuperation, with skilled builders, foresters, and other craftsmen who could work quickly and well. It would only take a matter of days for him to marshal a force around the lake, if he decided to do so. But Tauriel knew in her heart he would need someone to convince him. For all her talk of wisdom and justice she knew her king was very selfish, and would only ride to Lake-town's aid if he had good reason. She did not tell Bard this, but she felt that Thranduil already knew of Smaug's death and Esgaroth's drowning; he was a wild-hearted Elf who could speak the tongues of many beasts who roved abroad. Undoubtedly some fleet-winged bird had brought him the news from its beak.

"Your people would have no better luck than I," she said, watching a gaggle of children scurry past with an armchair that had seen better days. "Send no one. I will go."

"Are you sure?" Bard could not hide the hope growing in his eyes. Guilt clenched Tauriel in its fist; how could she tell him she thought it would do no good?

"I am close with Thranduil's son. That might endear me to him, if nothing else can."

The dark-haired man broke into a smile, the first true smile she had seen on him since his return. "By the mountains, you cannot know how grateful I am. Thank you, Captain."

"I would stay another day, if you can afford the delay," Tauriel said. "I would like to make sure my healers know enough to go on without me. Perhaps your daughter could take my place." Sigrid already had the composure and the cool-headedness of an accomplished healer; all she needed now was the knowledge and the experience, both of which she was sure to get soon enough.

Bard nodded. "Whatever you need, name it, and you'll have it. Within reason, of course—we are of small means, now."

"A horse would halve the time it takes to reach the forest."

"I will ask the stableman what became of his charges. He might have turned the horses free, and we know one at least must have survived, if it bore the Master to the mainland."

"Good. I will leave at first light. But Bard—"

"I won't rely on my hope," he vowed. "But it is good to have it, all the same."

"You may not see me again," Tauriel said. "Even if I can coax the king out of his halls, he might not allow me to return with him." Indeed, she was sure of that, if she was sure of anything. She would be lucky if the worst of her punishment was confinement.

"And you would listen?"

"I might not have a choice."

Bard's face was grim again. "In that case, you'd best not leave without saying goodbye."

"I would not dare." She crossed her arms. "Now it is your turn to indulge me. Go and rest. Find some food. Sleep."

"I will do my best, though I suspect it won't be entirely up to me."

He was quite right about that—the vultures were already circling when they trudged back to the camp. Tauriel saw to it that Bard at least found somewhere comfortable to sit and had attendants to wait on him while he oversaw the operations of the camp. Soon he had a bowl of stew, a flagon of ale, and a little footstool brought to him by Tilda. Bain stood protectively by his side, making sure no one smothered him with their attentions, and that issues were brought to him one at a time, just like a king hearing the petitions of his subjects. Then Tauriel made her way to where Sigrid had already undertaken the organization the healers' territory, laying down semi-dried rug and sorting their supplies. Óin was directing the setup of a number of chairs and couches for recovering or waiting patients. Bofur was helping him shift the furniture around, while Kili had already taken up residence on an armchair that looked as though it had been nibbled on by a school of fish.

His ready smile cut her to the quick. Tauriel's guilt squeezed tighter around her as she met his eyes. She had the sudden urge to sit with him, to tell him everything. He had to know that she wanted more than anything to stay, as she had promised to do—but if she did not entreat Thranduil to help the humans, then no one would. And he would understand that. He would make her laugh about it in the end, and then he would say something heartfelt in his own funny way, and in the morning he would refuse to say goodbye.

But bad news is a hard gift to give to anyone, especially to those on the mend, so Tauriel did not go to him. She could not bear it, not now, not yet. She stole a last look at him as she moved to help Sigrid, and saw him gazing at the far and Lonely Mountain. A shadow of melancholy had fallen on him as swift as a hammerstroke. It was a new sadness, and very young. It belonged to a dream which at night had risen, star-footed, into a hungry sky, only to be bleached into bones by the morning light. It belonged to a heart made newly fierce with discovery, which had torn itself open, only to find hope and heaviness in equal measure inside.

Hearts, as Tauriel knew, were traitors even on their better days, and dreams weighed the most of anything in this world.

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**It's here, it's finally here! :D Thank you guys so much for waiting. School is not my favorite when it takes me away from my writing, but I'm glad I could still get this up for you all this weekend! This chapter draws inspiration heavily from Fire and Water, the fourteenth chapter of The Hobbit. My next update will see some characters who will be brand new to this fic, which should be very fun. Thanks for the follows and faves, and keep reviewing if that's what your heart tells you! My readers are the best 3**

**Love, Quill**


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